


Harry Potter and the Act of Moving Forward

by thehonorablewangfire



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Divergence - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, F/M, Hermione Doesn’t Blindly Support Authority, Horcrux Hunting, Proactive Harry, Ron leaves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:40:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28719780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehonorablewangfire/pseuds/thehonorablewangfire
Summary: Ron's departure forces Harry and Hermione into action, taking a more focused and proactive role in the hunt for Voldemort's horcruxes.A DH Re-Write with several changes, including a distinct lack of guilt and pining towards a certain ginger, a more ruthless and cynical BWL, and a Hermione unwilling to lose her best friend.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Comments: 47
Kudos: 161





	1. the departure

**Author's Note:**

> This is a DH Re-write based on my personal tastes. I'm not a huge fan of Ron's character, but I won't be openly bashing as a trope. He will still be involved heavily in the story. However, at its core, this is a H/Hr pairing.  
> Starts at Ron's Departure and will continue to Post-War/EWE territory.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I own a 2016 Jeep Renegade, but I do not own Harry Potter.

The day Albus Dumbledore died, Hermione and Ron promised each other that they would never abandon Harry. Not an Unbreakable Vow, nor even a Magical One. Just a promise between best friends. They vowed to stay by his side, through whatever the future held, until the horcruxes were destroyed and Voldemort was defeated. Hermione was the one to initiate the promise, having mistrusted Ron’s loyalty ever since the Triwizard Tournament. Ron was hesitant to make the vow, recalcitrant in his initial refusal, but Hermione Granger was not to be denied.

So, with trepidation and a phoenix lament soaring over the grounds, Ron promised. And at the time, he probably might have even meant it.

But Ronald Weasley was sorted into Gryffindor for bravery, not Hufflepuff for loyalty.

And months later, in the early throes of winter, with light rain and sleet battering their tent, howling winds raging and whispers of evil poisoning their minds, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley nearly came to blows in their rage. Spiteful, hateful words exchanged; slights both imagined and real finally were brought to light in their quarrel. It wasn’t a simple row, or even an argument or a fight. No, it was a fracture in their friendship that would never heal…

_"Then GO!” roared Harry. “Go back to them, pretend you’ve got spattergroit and Mummy’ll be able to fill you up and – “_

_Ron made a sudden movement: Harry reacted, but before either wand was clear of its owner’s pocket, Hermione had raised her own._

“ _Expelliarmus!”_ she cried, and the telltale thin beam of red light blasted Ron’s wand right out of his hand and Ron’s body right out of the tent and into the rain. Harry was shell-shocked, but quickly recovered and threw himself out of the tent, Hermione right on his heels, her wand still raised.

Ron pushed himself to his feet with great effort, effusive hate boiling in his eyes, but he paled when he saw the expressions plastered upon his friends’ countenances. Harry’s was cold, passive, eerily reminiscent of a young Tom Riddle, but Hermione’s was what made Ron pause: even through the tears streaming down her face, the resentment and disgust was evident. Ron had tried for so long to be brave, strong and steadfast for Hermione’s sake. He’d made the promise to her so many months before just to ensure she’d be safe. But the corrosive, diamond-pure hate that was etched on her face proved that something had broken between the three of them.

Hermione Granger finally had seen the kind of man Ronald Weasley was.

“Leave the locket,” she said.

Ron, thoroughly dejected, wrenched the locket from his neck and tossed it into the mud.

“My wand,” he muttered, gesturing towards her.

Harry, finally absolutely bleeding _done_ with Ron after all these years, shook his head violently.

“Not happening. I’ll gather your things, walk you to the ward line. Once you’ve walked past it, I’ll toss your wand to you,” he said clearly. Hermione, satisfied with this plan, nodded. Harry turned to her.

“Keep your wand trained on him.”

“Is that really necess – “

“Hermione,” he demanded, shutting her up. “Keep your wand on him.” She nodded, consenting, and turned her focus back to Ron, who was seething once more. And once Harry sequestered himself back into the tent, Ron attempted his plea.

“Hermione, you can’t stay here with him,” he tried.

“I promised I would, Ronald,” she said coolly, “and so did you. Do you remember? Dumbledore’s body wasn’t even cold yet.” The tears had resumed in full force. “You _swore_ to me that you wouldn’t abandon him. Not again. And what you said – how could you? – what you said about his _parents_?” Her breath caught in her throat, and she shuddered again. Collecting herself, she shook her head slightly and looked back up at Ron.

“I don’t know how much of what you said was the horcrux and how much was just you. I can’t force myself to care right now. We swore we’d help him, and that’s what I’m going to do. With or without you.”

“I get it,” he murmured. “You choose him.”

Hermione knew, once those words left his mouth, that her response would be a paradigm shift for the ‘Golden Trio’. That it would change _everything_. It was momentous. And yet, it took her all of two seconds to make her choice.

“Yes. I do.”

Ron’s shoulders sagged, and he looked wholly crushed. He nodded resignedly and stood silent, waiting for Harry. It was only a few minutes later when Harry emerged from the tent and gingerly grabbed Ron’s wand out of Hermione’s pocket, whispered something in her ear, motioned his head away from the tent and started walking. Ron followed quietly, leaving Hermione to her tears.

They only walked about fifty feet, stopping just before the ward lines that Hermione had set up. Harry handed Ron’s rucksack to him and waited. Ron, trying to think of something to say and failing miserably, threw the bag onto his shoulder and made to cross the wards.

“Wait,” Harry said. Ron froze and braced himself.

Harry shoved his hands behind his head and clenched his fingers together, shaking with barely suppressed anger. He started to pace slightly, only taking two or three small steps before turning on the spot and repeating. It was clear that he was finally airing out whatever dirty laundry he had with Ron.

“I need you to know that this is it for us. For the three of us. I put up with a lot from you over the years: the jealousy, the insecurity, the mistrust. I thought after the Tournament you’d learned, grown up. Maybe figured yourself out. You were my first friend, a brother. I’d have done anything for you, if you’d asked. Have done everything I could for you, that you’d let me. And even now, after this, I’d forgive you if it were just what you’d done to me.” He stopped pacing and looked Ron dead in the eye.

“But what you’ve done to Hermione, I can’t forgive. I _won’t_. She’s saved both our skins more than once over the years, and right, we’ve both done badly by her, I’ll admit. But If it weren’t for me, she’d have been dead in first year because of _you_. You’ve fancied her ever since Krum took her to that damn ball, and you’ve done nothing but make her miserable since. At first, I thought you were just being a prat, then a git, but now I know better. You’re a right foul bastard, Ronald Weasley, and you’re a goddamned coward. You don’t deserve her, you never have.”

Harry took Ron’s wand from his pocket, shoved it into a bewildered and furious Ron’s hand, and clenched down on it, glaring at him, emerald green piercing pale blue.

“Don’t try to come back,” Harry commanded, and pushed Ron out of the wards.

He took his time rambling back to the camp, wanting to give Hermione the time and space to deal with the shock and grief and needing the same to deal with it himself. He sifted through his memories of Ron, the good and the bad, wondering where they had gone wrong. Ron had always been the jealous sort, prone to fits of self-pity and lashing out at any attempt of consolation. But he had also been resolute in his bravery, willing to stand by Harry even in the worst of dangers. The locket had done its fair share of damage to their relationship, but Ron was a man grown, able to make his own decisions despite external influences, or so Harry had thought.

When he reached the campsite, Hermione was already outside. Seeing her buried nose-deep in a book wasn’t an uncommon occurrence by any means, but Harry couldn’t help but feel that there was something wrong with the image. Her eyes were indeed red and puffy, but she looked more irate than miserable. She must have noticed him standing there gawking at her, because she suddenly snapped the book shut and sighed heavily before meeting his eyes.

“What?” she demanded, snapping him out of his own thoughts.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, holding his palms up toward her in an attempt to appease her. An angry Hermione was a dangerous Hermione, and he had more desire to take a hag on a date to Hogsmeade than to have Hermione turn her rage onto him. “I just didn’t think you’d be reading right now.”

“Harry, honestly. I’m not going to bite your head off,” she scoffed.

He sighed, rubbing his face lazily. “We need to talk about this.”

Hermione obviously disagreed, judging by the way she tensed and shook her head furiously. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Neither do I, honestly. But it isn’t about wanting to, it’s about _needing_ to.”

“Oh, so _now_ you need to talk,” she sneered, tone venomous and scathing. “I’ve been trying to get you to talk to me for six years with no results, and _now_ you feel like sharing.” He felt like he was being scolded, and after everything with Ron, he wasn’t keen on repeating the experience.

“Hermione, please. Calm down. I’m not – I want us to talk so that what just happened with Ron doesn’t happen again. I’m not trying to grill you or get you to spill your deepest, darkest secrets or anything. And you know why I didn’t like talking before, we went through this already.”

She said nothing, not a word. She just kept her icy glare focused on Harry, who, after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, finally relented:

“What did I – you know what? Never mind. I just thought, since it’s the two of us now, that we might do better to stay on the same page, to talk about things before they blow up like what just happened. You’re all I have, Hermione, no one else is left. Sirius, Dumbledore… I – You’re right, maybe we _don't_ need to talk about it.”

At once the anger drained from her face, replaced immediately with regret. “You’re right, Harry, I – “

“No, I’m not. We don’t need to talk; it’s fine. If you need me, I’ll be in the tent. Let me know if you find anything.” He turned away from her and entered the tent, tossing his jacket onto a chair. After fiddling about for a bit, he picked up the locket and looped it around his own neck. After cleaning up what little mess there was around the tent, he climbed into his bed and stared up at the dark canvas roof, doing his best not to listen to the sounds of Hermione’s quiet sobs.


	2. the talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter up! I have 8 pre-written and proofread. However, I will pacing the publication dates so I don't burn myself out. Enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: If I had $25 billion, I could potentially own Harry Potter. Alas, I do not. It’s a beautiful dream, though.

Harry woke with start a few hours later, he assumed, given that it was still dark outside. For a few moments he had forgotten what happened with Ron and, oddly worse, his argument with Hermione afterwards. He hoped that it had all just been a horrible dream, that in a few hours he would be enduring another one of Ron and Hermione’s spats. Hell, he’d have been happy to let Ron listen to that blasted newscast all day if it meant he hadn’t left them. But when he turned his head, he saw Ron’s empty bed, his things gone. Sighing heavily, he jumped down from his own bed and stretched. He’d nearly made it to the kitchenette when a clear voice made him jump, wand out.

“Morning,” Hermione said from the table.

“Did you sleep at all?” he asked, knowing the answer. She shook her head absently.

“No, but I made breakfast. There’s tea in the kettle.”

He scuttered over to the kitchen, grabbing cold eggs and a mug of tea, picking at the food distractedly. _He’s gone_ , he told himself. _Ron left you, and he left Hermione. He’s not coming back. You’ll have to do it yourselves_. The enchantments Hermione had weaved over the campsites meant that it would be impossible for Ron to find them even if he did try to return. And harry surprised himself by not _wanting_ Ron to come back. What would stop him from leaving again if it got rough?

“I thought about what you said,” Hermione muttered, sighing when Harry shook his head.

“No, you were right. Talking’s never really been my strongest point. No need to get into it now. We’ll work on the hunt and leave it at that. Speaking of, we need to pack up and move,” he finished, eating the last few bites of food before standing.

She gripped his wrist tightly and when he turned, he saw tears shimmering in her eyes. “Please,” she whispered. “Talk to me.”

“What do you want me to say, ‘Mione?”

“What were you going to say yesterday before I stopped you?”

“I don – I don’t know. Just, anything, I suppose. Ron and I – we hardly ever talk to each other anymore, not really. After the tournament, something changed. I didn’t feel like I could trust him the same way. I guess I turned to you more after that. I just – I don’t want you to leave, too. So, I thought – maybe if we just talked to each other more, even if it’s about nothing that matters, you know?”

“So…you just want to – what, have a normal conversation?”

He nodded.

“In the middle of the woods, while we’re searching for horcruxes?”

Another nod.

She looked at him for second before bursting into laughter. Harry honestly had _no_ clue what was going on. For a moment he thought Hermione had finally gone round the twist. Eventually, she was able to stifle her giggles and calm herself.

“Alright then. So, Ron doesn’t like _talking_ , period. He never – ugh, he’s just so daft! I don’t think we told you, but after Dumbledore’s funeral, I made him promise not to leave, that neither of us would abandon you. Did he tell you?”

Harry shook his head. “Why?”

“Because you need us, Harry. Or, I thought you did, I suppose. I don’t know anymore,” she said miserably.

“No, I mean - why make him promise? Did you think he’d leave?”

“Honestly? Yes. I had a feeling. He’s so used to comfort and ease, I knew he wouldn’t be as resilient to ‘roughing it’ as you. I’m surprised _I’m_ doing as well as I am.”

“And how _are_ you doing?” he asked hesitantly. He didn’t want to overstep, but he couldn’t afford for Hermione to be distracted. If she needed to vent, he’d deal with it.

“I’m _furious_. I thought – he seemed like he’d changed, like that jealous streak had finally disappeared. I know the horcrux makes your worst thoughts come to the forefront of your mind, but the things he said… they didn’t just come out of nowhere, Harry. The horcrux can’t create thoughts for you, they were things he was already thinking.”

“Right,” he said awkwardly, “I meant – I thought the two of you…?”

“Oh,” she said, equally as awkward. “ _Oh!_ No. I thought, maybe, for a while last year. But no. Ginny told me he’d been reading some nonsense book about ‘charming witches’ and we had a _monumental_ row about it. After that it I made it clear to him that nothing would come from trying.”

“Merlin. Alright then. I guess we hadn’t really talked about it since you set those birds on him last year.”

“No, not really. We didn’t have a lot of time to talk about much, to be honest. Speaking of, what happened with you and Ginny?”

“I, er – I don’t really know. It was really great at first. I spent all that time looking at her with Corner and Dean and being a jealous idiot. But when we got together all we did was snog. We never really talked about much. Ron didn’t help at all. I thought it might be better since I’m his best mate, you know. Like, he knew he could trust me. But if anything, it just made it worse. When we decided against returning to Hogwarts, I told her that we couldn’t be together anymore. Partly to try and keep her safe, but also because it just didn’t – it didn’t feel right. It felt like she was still in love with the Boy-Who-Lived, not me.”

Hermione kept silent and just looked at him in something akin to wonder.

“What?” he asked defiantly. “Have I got something on my face?”

“I think,” she said slowly, “that’s the most you’ve ever said at one time that wasn’t a speech about You-Know-Who or an argument. Anyway, I talked to Ginny about that years ago, you know. I thought she had it all figured out. Shame, really.”

“I dunno. Gin’s great, really. But she’s so competitive about everything. Even snogging felt like we were constantly trying to one-up each other. It never felt comfortable.”

“I thought that would be something you’d like in a girl.”

“No, the opposite, I think. You know me, I like things quiet. Peaceful. Loud and boisterous is about as far from what I like as you can get. For what it’s worth, I was surprised that you were even interested in Ron at all. He wasn’t, er, very nice to you, I mean.”

“No, he really wasn’t,” she all but whispered. Harry could tell the conversation was dragging and decided to end it before either of them could get too upset. It wasn’t awkward or jilted like he expected it to be. He realized that he shouldn’t have been surprised. Hermione had always been easy to talk to when she wasn’t being her adamant and domineering alter ego he called The Scholar.

“Actually,” he said, “That’s something else I wanted to talk about before we go. I was thinking yesterday – “

“Never a good sign.”

“Oh, shove off. _Anyway_ , I was thinking, and I realized that I haven’t been the best friend to you. Hold on, let me finish. I mean, sure, I’ve saved your life a few times. But you’ve also saved mine more than I can count. I wouldn’t have made it to Quirrell in the first place without you. You figured out the Basilisk, you had the Time-Turner, you helped me with the First Task, the Department of Mysteries. You warned me about the Firebolt _and_ Snape’s book. You’ve been there from the beginning, and I spent most of that time taking Ron’s side in almost everything. So, I wanted to let you know that that’s all done. Not that it’ll be much of an issue anyway… But yeah, it’s just us two now, so I’ll have your back, you know that. No matter what.”

Whatever reaction Harry was expecting, it wasn’t Hermione bursting into tears and wrapping her arms around his middle. However, after six years of these hugs he no longer was surprised by them and didn’t hesitate to reciprocate, holding her tightly until she stopped shaking and cleared her throat. She pulled away but kept her hands on his chest, smiling brightly up at him.

“Thank you, Harry. You were right, by the way. It’s nice to just talk sometimes. We should do this more often.”

“I agree,” she said happily. “You ready to get packed up?”

She nodded and they got started. Hermione was as quick and clinical as ever, rounding up books and supplies by hand while Harry took stock of the camp. He went to check the perimeter and began to undo their protective enchantments as she took the tent down and stuffed it into her beaded bag. With a flick of her wand, the fire pit they’d made vanished and the ground they’d covered looked undisturbed, as if they had never been there at all. There was no dawdling, no waste of time or effort. She said they were ready to go, and when he agreed she grabbed his hand and Disapparated, reappearing on a windswept hillside covered in dogwood trees.

Rather than immediately set up camp when they arrived, Hermione suggested that they set up the protective wards together to save time and energy. Despite the cold knot of regret and anger in his chest, he couldn’t help but be amazed that Hermione was taking Ron’s departure so well. He decided then and there that if she could tough it out, so could he. Hermione’s advice proved useful after all, for when she tried to cast a general silencing charm, Harry suggested the _Muffliato_ charm as well, to her agreement.

They didn’t discuss Ron much over the next few days, but they talked about nearly everything else. Hermione confided in him that she was nervous about her Obliviating her parents, fearing that she might’ve gotten the spell wrong and that she might not be able to reverse it when the war ended. Harry responded in kind, unburdening himself of his regrets over Sirius’ death and his fears that he wouldn’t survive the war at all. They had a particularly testy conversation about how they should approach fighting Death Eaters, Harry firmly in the camp of fighting fire with fire while Hermione advocated mercy wherever possible. In the end, they agreed to disagree with a promise to do whatever it took to complete their task and protect one another. Harry would also bring out the Marauder’s Map while Hermione read by the fire, hoping that their friends that had returned to the school were safe.

Due to what he had to guess was Hermione’s influence, he began reading through the books Hermione had packed with her. And not perusing or flicking through them as he had done in school, but _actually_ reading them. He tore through them, drinking in the information like a parched man in need of water. Hermione congratulated him facetiously when he declared that he’d finally read _Hogwarts, A History_ , and he felt both elated and disappointed that he’d rediscovered his love of learning.

Neither of them had the faintest idea where the Sword of Gryffindor could possibly be. Hermione posited several possible locations, each as unlikely as the last, and Harry racked his brains trying to remember every conversation he’d ever had with Dumbledore, searching for any clues as to where the headmaster may have hidden it. There were several moments where Harry felt himself truly resentful of Dumbledore. Ron’s words played in his mind in a continuous feedback loop. _We thought you knew what you were doing… We thought Dumbledore had told you what to do… We thought you had a real plan!_

“You know, I reckon Ron was right about one thing,” Harry suggested one night over dinner. “Dumbledore left me with next to nothing to go on. We’ve got one horcrux with no way to get rid of it, and we’re no closer to finding the others as we were a week ago. Hell, even a month ago.”

Hermione looked pensive, but a hopelessness had begun to envelop Harry, swathing him in doubt and shaking his self-confidence to the core. He felt as though he and Hermione were meandering, that their hunt would ultimately prove useless to the war effort. His only comfort was that he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Hermione would stick by him throughout, and he was immensely grateful for her unwavering confidence in him.

“I’ve been thinking about that, actually. How did you summon the sword in the Chamber?” she asked.

“Well, when Fawkes showed up, I had just yelled at Riddle’s shade that Dumbledore was the greatest sorcerer in the world, not him. When Riddle released the basilisk, I ran and shoved the hat over my eyes. It just appeared out of nowhere, really. Bonked me on the top of the head. I think I still have the knot, actually,” he finished with a grin, rubbing the crown of his head.

She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Right, well, my theory is that the sword requires either a show of loyalty or an act of true bravery to be summoned.”

“Well, let’s just go find another basilisk to fight, yeah? Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Prat.”

“I’m really not sure, ‘Mione. It could be in a vault in Gringotts or still in the school somewhere. Maybe in the Room of Requirement? Or it could be anywhere else, really. There’s no way of knowing. You’d think with what little literature there is written about horcruxes, some of the texts would have described how to destroy them.”

Harry reckoned that Phineas Nigellus was a bit of an arse, but he was company. Hermione had a theory that buttering him up with praise would make him open up and let information slip, and she was proven right when he revealed that there was something of a relentless mutiny against Snape at the school. Harry felt a surge of pride towards what had to be the remnants of the D.A. still embedded at Hogwarts. However, Phineas’ tenure as their unknowing spy met its end when he started asking leading questions about their activities and location, and they were forced to imprison his portrait in her beaded bag.


	3. the plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I have a bit of a backlog of written chapters, I decided to just go ahead and publish 3 & 4.
> 
> Disclaimer: Even in Mother Russia, Harry Potter does not own me. The inverse is also true.

The weather went from chilly to positively frigid as they continued their sporadic camping trip. The weeks raced by at a fevered pace. They spent no more than three days in any one site, and despite its source of relative comfort, tended to stray from southern England and into the altogether colder, more rough terrain of the north. After one exceptionally awful night on an island in the middle of a Scottish loch, Harry put his foot down and they moved back south for a few days, giving Harry an opening for his tentative suggestion to Hermione.

They had enjoyed an unusually satisfying meal of Ratatouille (under Hermione’s suggestion) after a clandestine trip to a supermarket under cover of the Cloak, and Harry had decided they should take a break from wearing the locket as they usually did while talking. Harry had been the one to suggest that routine a few days after Ron left, arguing that without the locket’s influence, they would be able to talk rationally with one another. After that, it had become standard practice. Rather than beat around the bush, Harry decided to just lead with his proposal and answer the inevitable million questions Hermione would have for him.

“I think we should go to Godric’s Hollow.”

“Hmm?” She was curled up on his bunk, her copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ open across her lap along with _Spellman’s Syllabary_ , and she looked to be cross-referencing something between the two tomes. Harry, for the life of him, couldn’t understand what could be so difficult to decipher in a children’s storybook.

“Never mind. Having trouble with something?”

“Yes. Look at this symbol here. Do you recognize it?” she said, pointing to what looked to be a rune at the top of one page. It resembled a triangular eye, its pupil crossed with a vertical line. Something tinged at his memory. He _had_ seen the symbol somewhere but couldn’t remember where.

“Yeah, I’ve seen it…somewhere. Hold on, let me think. _Yes_! It’s Grindelwald’s mark!”

“ _What?_ ”

“Yeah, Krum told me at the wedding that it was Grindelwald’s mark. Apparently, Grindelwald himself carved the mark on a wall at Durmstrang back in his day. Luna’s dad was wearing a pendant at the wedding with the symbol on it. Krum looked like he wanted to curse him.”

“Grindelwald.”

“Yes, Grindelwald.”

“The _Dark_ _Lord_ Grindelwald.”

“Yes, Hermione. _That_ Grindelwald. Honestly, how many blokes do you know named Grindelwald?”

She kept looking back and forth from the symbol to Harry. “There’s never been any mention of him even _having_ a mark in anything I’ve read.”

“Like I said, it’s just what Krum told me. Mind you, he did try to kill me in the maze, so who knows?”

She rolled her eyes and smiled. “So, Godric’s Hollow?”

“Yeah, I want to go. I figure the sword might be there, you know?”

Hermione gaped openly at him, her mouth flapping open and closed while she tried to find her words. Harry felt both gratified and insulted.

“No need to look surprised. I’m not stupid, you know. I _can_ read.”

She quickly recovered, suddenly bashful. “Of course, Harry. I didn’t mean – you _are_ intelligent, I just – “ she sighed. “I’m not making myself look good here, am I?”

“Not so much, no,” he said cheekily. “I get it. I used to love reading, you know. The summer before first year, I read through all my schoolbooks. I wanted to learn magic so much. Not sure where I went wrong, really.”

“Ron’s influence, most likely. Here, let me grab the book.”

He held it up in his hand. “I’ve got it here.” He opened the book at the page he’d marked.

_“’Upon the signature of the International Statute of Secrecy in 1689, wizards went into hiding for good. It was natural, perhaps, that they formed their own small communities within a community. Many small villages and hamlets attracted several magical families, who banded together for mutual support and protection. The villages of Tinworth in Cornwall, Upper Flagley in Yorkshire, and Ottery St. Catchpole on the south coast of England were notable homes to knots of Wizarding families who lived alongside tolerant and sometimes Confunded Muggles. Most celebrated of these half-magical dwelling places is, perhaps, Godric’s Hollow, the West Country village where the great wizard Godric Gryffindor was born, and where Bowman Wright, Wizarding smith, forged the first Golden Snitch. The graveyard is full of the names of ancient magical families, and this accounts, no doubt, for the stories of hauntings that have dogged the little church beside it for many centuries.’”_

“The Potters aren’t mentioned because Professor Bagshot doesn’t cover anything past the end of the nineteenth century,” she said as he closed the book.

“I’ll admit, the sword wasn’t my first thought when I had the idea of going, but after I read this it made the idea more convincing. I know it’s a risk, but I think it’s worth it.”

“What else is there?” she asked curiously, but before Harry could reply she stiffened, and her eyes started glimmering. “Merlin, I’m an idiot. I’m sorry, Harry, of course you’d want to visit them.”

“Yeah, there’s that,” he said, grabbing her hand to tell her she’d done nothing wrong, “but I want to see the house as well. And Auntie Muriel said that Bathilda Bagshot still lives there.”

“Bathilda Bagshot…” she murmured, absent-mindedly rubbing the back of his hand with her thumb. Out of nowhere she gasped and gripped his hand so tightly that he thought they were under attack, and instinctually he drew his wand and threw himself over her, bracing himself. To his surprise and chagrin, she started laughing.

“What?” he demanded, somewhat annoyed. He looked down at her with a glare to see she was flushed and still giggling, her hair wild and fanned out over a pillow. Something hard jerked in his stomach seeing her so happy and seemingly carefree, and before he knew it he was smiling and laughing, too.

Rubbing one of his arms held above her, she smiled up at him. “Harry, I appreciate your protective instinct, but I can take care of myself, you know.”

“Right,” he said sheepishly. “I know that. You just scared me is all.”

She smiled and shifted her legs, and suddenly Harry realized that he was _lying on top of her_ and quickly pulled himself up and to a respectful distance. His face felt like it was on fire, and when he glanced over at Hermione, her face was flushed crimson.

“Sorry about that,” he croaked.

She shook her head quickly, still smiling. “It’s alright, Harry. I didn’t mind – I mean, it isn’t a big deal.”

And _that_ was confusing. Until just a few weeks prior, Harry had been sure that Hermione had harbored feelings for Ron for years. But apparently, he had been wrong about that to an extent. He was sure, however, that Hermione was not attracted to him. But she didn’t him lying on top of her? Did _he_ mind? Not for the first time, Harry cursed his sheltered upbringing for not preparing him to deal with women.

“Right. Okay then,” he said, forcing a smile. “So why did you gasp like that?”

“Oh! Yes, I thought, maybe, what if Bathilda Bagshot has the sword? What if Dumbledore left it with her, knowing you’d want to visit?”

Harry had to admit that the theory had merit. It seemed like the kind of backward, overly complex solution that Dumbledore seemed to prefer. But Bathilda Bagshot would be extremely old by now, not to mention that Muriel had insisted that she was “gaga.” Harry was on the fence about it, and told Hermione so.

“Of course. There’s no way of knowing for sure besides actually _going_ there,” she said. “We’ll have to plan well. Disapparating under the Cloak, maybe Polyjuice? We’ll need hairs. I think the more elaborate our disguises the better.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

He let her hash out the details of the plan, throwing in ideas here and there, content to let her manage it. While Ron had been their resident strategist, Hermione was more than clever enough to make up for his loss. While she talked and wrote, he took his photo album from Hermione’s beaded bag and flipped through its pages, smiling down at the moving images of his parents taken so many years ago. He was still looking through it when he noticed that Hermione had gone silent and glanced up at her, only to find her looking at him with an odd expression.

“Do you want a family one day?” she asked.

“I – I don’t know. I think I haven’t really let myself think that far ahead. I think... Yeah, I’d love to get married one day, have kids and all that. But I’m not sure. I think if I survive, then I’ll think about it then.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say things like that. _If_ you survive…” she shook her head.

“It’s a war, Hermione. And what we’re doing, it’s especially dangerous. There’s so much that could go wrong. And when we get all of the horcruxes, I’ll still have to fight him in the end.”

She just kept looking at him, pinching her eyebrows together like she was in pain, before she closed her books and flicked her wand. The lamps that kept the tent partially bathed in pale light extinguished. Hermione kicked her boots off and lay back in the bed, drawing the thick coverlet over herself. She waved him over, ignoring his look of incredulity, and he stepped over to the bed and lowered himself down beside her, laying on his side. She kept her eyes trained on his and scooted up to him, curling her body against his. With a heaving sigh, she placed her hands on his arms and buried her head in his chest.

“I hope – is this okay? I don’t really feel up to sleeping alone,” she said. Her voice was trembling, and the last thing on Earth that Harry felt capable of doing was denying her.

“Yeah, of course,” he choked out. “I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?”

She hummed, already halfway asleep, and Harry waited until her breathing evened out before closing his eyes and following her into slumber.


	4. godric's hollow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Major deviations from canon ahead!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own approximately 0.00% of Harry Potter.

Harry waited patiently for Hermione to give the all-clear. He’d wanted to go straight to Godric’s Hollow the morning after their talk, but Hermione had insisted on erring on the side of caution. She was certain that Voldemort would expect Harry to return to the village at some point and had created plans within plans for disguises, distractions, and potential escapes. So, a full week later, Polyjuiced into a young Muggle couple and hidden beneath the Cloak, they Apparated just outside the snowy village of Godric’s Hollow.

Harry’s nerves were so frayed that a thick sense of nausea made it nearly impossible for him to focus. The prospect of seeing his parents’ graves and their old home filled him with both hope and dread, and his only lifeline was Hermione’s small hand laced with his.

They had entered the village by cover of night, the inky blackness above them interspersed with flickering stars. Small, well-built cottages lined either side of the thin cobbled street, wreathes and signs and other yuletide images twinkling in their windows. Yellow-orange streetlights provided little visible light. Harry thought it looked like a Christmas postcard.

After Harry convinced her that they were disguised enough abandon the Cloak, Hermione took a moment to truly appreciate the subtle beauty of the village. Keeping their hands clasped together, she kicked at the snowdrifts and giggled.

“It’s so lovely here!” she said quietly. “There’s so much snow.”

As they walked, Harry heard the sounds of cheering and laughter from a nearby pub. The smell of fried food made his mouth water, and he was about to joke to Hermione about grabbing a spot to eat after they left when he saw her face. She looked so serene with snow falling around her, even if the face she wore wasn’t her own. When they heard a carol pick up from the nearby church, she nodded to herself.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” she said simply.

“Yeah, I thought so as well,” he responded. “Sorry I didn’t get you anything. Been a touch busy lately.”

She laughed. “Oh no, that won’t do. We’ll have to fix that somehow.”

After a few minutes, they reached a war memorial that jutted out of the ground like a marble obelisk. As they approached it, it transformed. Instead of the obelisk covered in names, there stood a statue of three people; a man with unruly hair and glasses, a woman with long, wavy hair and a kind face, and a baby boy in his mother’s arms. Snow capped their heads, crowning them like white halos.

“That’s you,” Hermione whispered, tightening her grip on his hand.

“Yeah,” he said thickly. “C’mon.” He turned toward the church, leading Hermione toward the kissing gate at the graveyard’s entrance. They followed the path away from the church and into rows upon rows of snow-covered tombstones and grave markers. Harry noticed familiar names: Abbotts and Bones and even a Black or two. Hermione had remarked openly about the two Dumbledore graves: Kendra and Ariana.

“He never mentioned – ?” she began.

“No,” he said evenly. “But then, he kept secrets from everyone. Played his cards far too close to the chest, that man.”

Harry’s early resentment of Albus Dumbledore had paled into an acquiescent apathy. He had accepted that Dumbledore had secrets he didn’t want brought to light, and that he felt the only one he trusted enough to keep his full confidence was himself. Rather than anger, Harry felt pity for the man he had so respected and admired, that he spent so much of his life feeling alone. He was absorbed in his thoughts and nearly missed a crumbling, mossy stone with a large “P” on it, and had to double back.

“Oh,” he said, disappointed. “I thought it said Potter,” and he turned away.

“Hold on,” Hermione insisted, tugging on his hand. When he looked at the stone, the first thing he noticed was that the name etched upon it was nearly entirely eroded. The second thing was the symbol.

“Grindelwald’s mark!” he exclaimed. “Hold on, give me a little light, I want to read the name.”

She cast a weak _Lumos_ and pointed it at the name on the headstone.

“Ig – Ignatius? Ignotus? Yeah, I think it says Ignotus. The surname starts with a “P”, but it’s so far gone I can’t read it. Write the name down, we might be able to look it up later.”

After she was finished, they trekked on, huddled together against the chill. Not wanting to rush, but all too aware that they were on a time limit, they merely skimmed names searching for his parents. After a little while, the caroling stopped and the church lights shut off with a _clunk_. To save time, Harry and Hermione briefly separated to look for the Potters, and only a few minutes later, Harry heard Hermione’s voice call out to him.

“Harry, they’re here..”

His parents’ marble tombstone shone brightly in the darkness. He felt like his heart was beating out of his chest, making so much noise that Hermione would be able to hear it. He knelt down before the marker and took it all in. He felt Hermione kneel down beside him as he read the engraved words:

**James Potter, b. 27 March 1960 – d. 31 October 1981**

**Lily Evans Potter, b. 30 January 1960 – d. 31 October 1981**

**_The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death._ **

Harry drank the words in, turning them over and over in his mind. They had been so young, barely into their twenties. They should’ve been working on their Masteries or starting jobs, going to the Leaky with Sirius and Remus for drinks, endlessly in love and joy with one another and their son, not buried in the Earth this way. He re-read the last of the words enscripted aloud.

“ _The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death_ …” Harry was merely confused. “I don’t – doesn’t that sound a bit like _his_ mantra?”

“I don’t think it’s meant to be literal,” she said gently. “I think it means living beyond death. Like the Christians, they believe in eternal life after death. I think it’s something similar.”

“But,” he said quietly, “but, they’re not alive. They’re here, in the ground. I – I don’t… It _hurts_ , Hermione,” and he broke down before he could stop himself. The tears burned his eyes, freezing on his cheeks. Hermione wrapped her arms around him and held him as he knelt, wishing that his parents could be there with him, or that he could be buried there with them. At least then they’d be together. They knelt there long enough for the remnants of the Polyjuice potion to fizzle out of their systems, and Harry was brought out of his thoughts by the sound of Hermione speaking.

“…think he’s a great man, Mrs. Potter. He does so much for everyone around him. He saved my life, you know, in our first year. This idiot boy had been pestering and making fun of me for weeks, and I cried for hours in a bathroom. When the troll attacked me, Harry came in right after it. He was so small then, so in over his head, but he still helped me. Jumped right on the troll’s back and stuck his wand up its nose,” she laughed, then, “He’s been my best friend ever since,” she turned to face him, “and I love him, very much.”

Harry couldn’t help the burning sensation in his chest, but he was able to keep the newly forming tears from falling. He cleared his throat and decided to follow Hermione’s lead.

“Hi Mum, Dad. I know I’m a little late visiting, but we’ve been busy. A lot’s happened, and I don’t know where to start, or how to start. But I’m alright for now, I’m as safe as I can be. I miss you, I think, or the idea of you. I see other people with their families, and I can’t help but be jealous. I know you had to leave, why you did. I just – I wish you were here with me… I, er, I guess you’ve met Hermione. She’s saved my skin more times than I can count. I don’t know where I’d be without her. She’s the most important person in my life, and I’m glad you both got to meet her. I love you both, and I promise to visit more.”

Hermione raised her wand and with a flourish, a wreath of Christmas roses blossomed before the gravestone. They stood together, Hermione’s hands clasped around one of his own, and they turned in silence and walked away through the snow. As they passed through the kissing gate, Hermione froze.

“There’s someone over there,” she whispered. “I saw something move, I swear it.”

Harry nodded and pulled the Cloak and the locket from his pocket, wrapping it around them and slipping the locket around his neck. They walked ahead, glancing back repeatedly as they moved through the night. Harry felt the horrid trickle of fear curl itself around his spine and did his best to ignore it. They passed the pub from earlier; it was fuller and noisier than before. Villagers young and old were inside, singing the carol that they had heard as they approached the church. Hermione tugged on his arm, pulling him through the dark street leading away from where they had entered. The frigid air had frozen the fallen snow into a slick, slippery blanket, and both Harry and Hermione had trouble keeping their balance. They ambled on as quickly as they could, past ostentatiously decorated cottages and more twinkling Christmas lights.

Hermione was asking him about finding Bathilda Bagshot when he froze on the spot. The cottage was small, smaller than the others he had seen in the village. The lawn was overgrown, waist-high grass covering every inch. Most of the cottage was still standing and covered in dark ivy and encased in snow, but the right side of the top floor had been blown apart, the once-ivory stucco blackened and charred.

“I wonder why nobody’s ever rebuilt it?” whispered Hermione.

“It’s a monument,” Harry said immediately.

Harry reached out and touched the gate, ignoring Hermione’s hissing. As soon as his hand brushed the iron, a sign rose out of the ground in front of them, and written in golden letters were the words:

**_On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981,_ **

**_Lily and James Potter lost their lives._ **

**_Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever to have survived_ **

**_the Killing Curse. This house, invisible to Muggles,_ **

**_has been left in its ruined state as a monument_ **

**_to the Potters and as a reminder of_ **

**_the violence that tore apart their family._ **

All around these neatly lettered words scribbles had been added at some point or another, words of support and encouragement, or otherwise remorse and pity, left by witches and wizards who had come to see where the Boy-Who-Lived had defied fate. Some had left their initials while others had left messages. Harry ignored the brightest and what he assumed were the most recent in favor of some of the more faded words.

**_Wherever you are, Harry, we wish you the best. You saved us all._ **

****

****

**_I’m so sorry, James. It should have been me. The rat will die, I swear it._ **

****

****

**_You are missed, Lily._ **

Harry thought it was brilliant. He read out some of the messages to Hermione, who huffed and insisted it was in poor taste to deface a monument. As he spoke, Harry saw a dark figure out of the corner of his eye and twisted, shielding Hermione behind him. It was a woman, obviously elderly by her posture and gait, and she was staring directly at them. She beckoned them, somehow sensing them despite the Cloak, and they cautiously shuffled forward.

Harry spoke up quietly, scaring Hermione and causing her to jump.

“Professor Bagshot?”

The woman nodded quickly and beckoned them again.

Underneath the Cloak, Harry looked at Hermione, raising his eyebrows. She gave him a tiny, nervous nod, and they followed behind her. She led them past several houses, finally turning in at a gate. The path leading to the house was just as overgrown as his parents’ old home. Bathilda fumbled at the door before opening it, letting them pass.

The home reeked of rot, sickly sweet and burning their noses. Harry pulled the Cloak off and pocketed it as they passed the threshold. As she faced the pair, Harry saw that the old woman looked truly awful. Her hands were mottled and blue, her face covered with liver spots and broken veins. Her eyes were riddled with cataracts and deeply yellowed. He shivered at the sight and moved into the den, Hermione right on his heels.

As Bathilda moved closer, Harry felt the locket around his neck rattle. It had somehow gone frigid and burned his chest, and it was making a quiet ticking sound. At first Harry thought it might be reacting to the presence of Gryffindor’s sword, that Hermione had been right after all. But the more he thought, the less confident he felt in that assumption. Something was _wrong_. He turned on his heel to Hermione, who had just done the same.

“I don’t like this,” they said simultaneously.

“Let’s see what she wants, okay? But we don’t separate for any reason, and stay close,” he whispered. She nodded her understanding and they turned back to the woman.

She was struggling to light the numerous candles littered about the den, and Harry offered to help her. The dim light cast upon the room only unsettled Harry more. The home and its owner had clearly been abandoned for months, if not years. Moldy teacups and plates littered the floor and a thick layer of dust coated nearly every surface. Harry’s attention was drawn to a nearby chest of drawers upon which stood a large number of photographs. He glanced from the photos to Bathilda, who was jerkily tending to a small flame in the fireplace, and muttered “ _Tergeo_ ”: The dust and grime wiped from the frames. Most were empty and cracked, but a small photo in the back caught his attention and he snatched it up, holding it up for Hermione to see.

“Hermione, _look_. He – I saw a vision, do you remember? Whoever this is stole a wand from Gregorovitch. I saw him again in Skeeter’s book. Have you ever seen him before? Do you know who he is?”

She shook her head. “No, Harry, I don’t recognize him. Maybe we could ask? Miss Bagshot, who is this boy?”

She stared at them and said nothing.

“Why did you ask us to come with you, Miss Bagshot?” asked Hermione, raising her voice. The feeling that something was _wrong_ , _horribly wrong_ intensified in the back of Harry’s mind. “Was there something you wanted to tell us?”

Bathilda gave no sign that she had heard Hermione and shuffled closer to Harry, jerking her head toward the stairs close to the front door. She pointed at Harry, then at herself, then up toward the ceiling.

“You want us to go upstairs with you?” Harry asked hesitantly. Bathilda shook her head violently. She pointed again at herself, then Harry, then up.

“You want _me_ to go with you alone? I don’t think so,” Harry said. “Either we both go, or we leave.”

Hermione had stiffened next to him and tugged on his sleeve. “Harry,” she said quietly, “I think we should leave.”

Harry stared at Bathilda for a moment and then nodded his head. He muttered a quick goodbye and lead Hermione toward the front door quickly, but then several things happened at once: his scar twinged painfully; the locket at his neck jerked around; he heard the familiar cold voice speak: _Hold him!_

Harry felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle and turned just in time to shove Hermione out of the way as fangs sank deep into his forearm, knocking him to the ground. Where once a woman stood, there was a great snake coiling on the floor, hissing violently.

“ _Hold you,”_ it hissed. _“Mussst hold you for him…_ ”

It reared its massive head and lashed forward again, but Harry rolled out of the way and sprang to his feet. He grabbed Hermione by the collar and waved his wand at the front door, blasting it into splinters. He heard the serpent slithering quickly behind him and turned once more, hoping that it was too far away to strike again.

He felt the horcrux burn harshly again, the cold metal beating like a heart, and his vision changed once more. He was flying, ever closer to the boy…He felt triumph, his victory was _so_ near…

Harry came to in the middle of Hermione screaming at him, for he had frozen where he stood. She was blasting curses at the snake, but it seemed to have some sort of protection. The spells were rebounding away from its smooth hide and hitting the façade of the house.

“Hermione, he’s coming! _He’s coming, and he’s nearly here!_ ”

He gripped Hermione’s hand tightly, making to Apparate away, but then he felt a searing pain in his calf. He looked down to see the snake had latched itself to him and was attempting to pull him back toward the house. Hermione had his hand and was tugging with all her strength to get them away. Pistons were firing in Harry’s brain, trying to come up with some kind of plan to escape, his head felt like it was splitting open with the pain from his scar –

In the back of Harry's mind, he remembered two words scribbled across a yellowed page: _For enemies._ He shoved his wand under the snake’s head and bellowed: “ _Sectumsempra!_ ” Immediately the jaws around his legs released him. He saw the coiling body of the snake writhe, headless and bloody. Seeing that he was free from the snake’s grasp, Hermione wrapped herself around him and twisted on the spot…

And then his scar exploded in agony and he was Voldemort running across the lawn, his pale, ghastly hands reaching for the boy even as he and the mudblood vanished on the spot. He felt Nagini’s death throes and raged into the night air, his screams of fury mingling with the church bells ringing in Christmas Day…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's where the major deviations from canon start to form. I deliberated with the idea of Sectumsempra even being effective against Nagini and Voldemort's protections of her, but decided that since only two people alive know how to use the spell effectively, I could justify it being used to kill her. If you don't like it, dear reader, I am sorry. But only a little.


	5. the epiphany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;-)
> 
> Disclaimer: None of you own Harry Potter, and neither do I. It sucks.

Harry felt boneless, as if he were floating around aimlessly without a body to keep him tethered. He slipped into nonexistence, meandering about, begging and pleading for the pain in his mind to cease.

He watched the memory of Voldemort murdering his parents in horror, feeling everything that Voldemort felt: the calm, the joy, the pleasure of the kill, the fury. Voldemort’s thoughts were his thoughts. He watched his father die, witnessed his mother begging for her son’s life, and when the curse rebounded, the pain in his head intensified even more. He begged for death, for release.

“Please,” he begged.

_Nagini was gone, her head severed. Did the boy know? No, no he couldn’t. He had simply fought back. He would not kill the boy for this. He would make it slow, savor it._

“Please, no…”

_He stood at the threshold of the broken home, absorbed by memories of his greatest failure. He looked down and saw the boy… the boy from Gregorovitch’s memory…_

“He’s found him…”

“Harry, Harry _please_. You’re alright!”

_There he was: the thief. The night was not a total loss, then…_

“Harry, please wake up! Wake up!”

And then he was awake. He was Harry; just Harry. His body weighed him down. Hermione was hovering over him, her eyes bloodshot and puffy. He was lying in his bunk, drenched in sweat. He looked around the tent cautiously, as if he expected Voldemort to jump out around a corner and kill him where he lay.

“H-Harry,” Hermione whispered, “Do you – are you okay?”

“No, not really,” he said with a small smile. “Feel like shite, to be honest.”

She chuckled throatily, her voice thick with emotion. She had purple bruises under her eyes and her hair was wild and unkempt. The sponge in her hand was tinted red. She had been cleaning the blood off him while he was unconscious.

“We escaped.”

“We did,” she said, smiling shyly. “You killed the snake! Dumbledore thought she might be one, right?”

“He did, and she was. I – how long have I been out?”

“A few hours. It’s nearly morning.”

“Were you hurt?”

She chuckled ruefully at him.

“What?” he demanded.

“’ _Were you hurt?’_ he asks. No, you selfless prat, I’m fine. _You_ on the other hand… I couldn’t get the locket off you. It was stuck to your chest. I had to use a Severing Charm to get it away. The snake bit you, too. Twice. I had to clean the wounds and put some dittany on them. I don’t know how effective its venom was, so you may feel peaky for a bit.”

He glanced down at his bare chest and saw an angry red oval on his sternum. He felt it burn as he turned his head to look at his arm and leg. The puncture wounds were already nearly healed, but Hermione was right: he did feel quite weak.

“Where’s the locket?”

She pointed to her bag. “We should keep it there for a while. I don’t fancy risking it getting stuck again.”

He sighed deeply and lay back on the bed. Hermione’s eyes glimmered with tears again and she started to shake. Harry reached out and slipped his hand into hers, rubbing small circles with his thumb.

“What’s wrong, ‘Mione?”

“We shouldn’t have g-gone,” she croaked between sobs. “You almost _died_ , and it would’ve been for n-nothing. We were wrong. _I_ was wrong. I was so _stupid_.”

“Oi!” he cried. “You, Hermione Granger, are the furthest thing from stupid as it’s possible to be. We took a risk, that’s all. It worked out. We got rid of a horcrux, right? What’s a couple scars in exchange for that? Let me have a bath and a hot meal and I’ll be right as rain in no time.”

“Harry, she was – the snake was _inside_ her,” Hermione said. She looked queasy, disgusted.

“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t – Moony said there would be magic we’d never imagined. That’s why she didn’t say anything, why she tried to get me alone. If she’d spoken in front of you, you’d have recognized Parseltongue. Once we decided to leave, she must’ve written it off as a bad job and tried to hold us there. She called him, Hermione… He showed up right as we Disapparated.”

She nodded slowly. “I know, I saw him. I had to use the Hovering Charm when we landed to carry you. I Apparated around four times to throw off the magical signature before I set up here.”

Harry’s stomach grumbled and he sat up slowly, throwing the covers back. But Hermione placed a hand on his chest and shook her head.

“Harry, you need to rest. I’ll get something for us to eat.” He nodded idly and lay back down. He grabbed his wand from his pocket and scoured his body and the bed of sweat and grime. It was a poor substitute for an actual cleaning, but he had no energy and couldn’t be fussed.

Hermione returned moments later with some bread and cheese and made a big fuss about feeding Harry. Twice he glanced at her as she was shoving the food into his mouth and saw her giggling silently, eyes alight with mirth. Even covered in mud and wet, her hair a bird’s nest of tangles and curls, Harry realized that Hermione was _beautiful_. And that thought made his brain short circuit.

Of course, Harry had always thought she was pretty. There was no doubt about it. Hermione was short in stature, but not stocky. Thin but not scrawny, as he himself had often been labeled. He had always enjoyed the way the light dusting of freckles crossing her face would move when she crinkled her nose. And unlike Draco, or even Ron, who had mocked her bushy chestnut hair, Harry had always quite liked it. It reminded him of his own unruly tresses, and he sympathized. The understanding of Hermione’s attractiveness was not in and of itself shocking at all; it was the _want_ that came with it that startled him.

Harry had told multiple people in the past that he saw Hermione as something of a sister, which of course was ridiculous because Harry had no idea what it was _like_ to have a sister. However, he was sure that most normal people didn’t think their sisters were beautiful, much less carried the desire to kiss them.

Bloody hell, he wanted to _kiss_ Hermione.

When he returned to his surroundings a moment later, Hermione was staring at him, face flushed scarlet and mouth gaping. He felt uncomfortably hot under her scrutiny and raised his eyebrows.

“What is it?” he asked, startling her.

“You – you said…” she trailed off.

His stomach dropped painfully. Had he done something wrong?

“What did I say? I was… _thinking_. Kind of spaced out for a moment.”

“Well,” she began quietly, “I was laughing, and you just stared at me for a while and wouldn’t say anything. I tried to get your attention. And then you said you…” she mumbled the last few words out of earshot, and Harry rolled his eyes.

“Out with it, ‘Mione, come on.”

“You said you wanted to kiss me!” she blurted out, the blush in her cheeks returning in full force.

“Oh,” said Harry, equally as flushed. For a split second, he wanted to make some kind of excuse. He could blame it on delirium, that he was tired from the attack. Or he could say that he just needed the comfort and she was there. But those were all lies. And Harry, for all his faults, was not a liar. Maybe on some subconscious level he had always wanted Hermione and had refused to do or say anything about it, or maybe he hadn’t, and it was a recent development. At the moment, though, it didn’t matter. So, he rustled up a bit of that infamous Gryffindor courage and told the truth.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I do.”

Hermione’s breath hitched. She spluttered for a moment, clearly caught off guard. “W-why?”

“What d’you mean, why? Why does any bloke want to kiss a girl?”

“I j-just – you’ve never said – this all _very_ sudden, you know – “

“Hermione,” he said softly. “It’s alright. I didn’t expect you to feel the same. Honestly, I didn’t realize I had said until I saw you staring. I wouldn’t have said anything at _all_ , preferably. It doesn’t have to change anything.”

“Why?”

“Why _what_?” he asked, starting to get annoyed.

“Why wouldn’t you have said anything?”

“Because – well, because you’re not interested, right? You – well, until a few weeks ago, I thought – Well, obviously not, but you know. And it’s not the time for any of that anyway, right? We’re in the middle of a war and all. And you shouldn’t feel pressured to – “

“You’re an idiot,” said Hermione. And then she kissed him.

 _She_ kissed _him_. And it was glorious. Harry was sweaty and lying at an awkward angle, Hermione was still covered in grime and her hair kept falling onto his face, and he didn’t care at all. Her lips were soft - _so_ soft - and they carried no hint of hesitation whatsoever. Any notions that Harry held of Hermione not wanting this were disregarded entirely. She kissed him like she was saying goodbye to him forever and wanted to imprint his lips on hers. Harry, to his credit, reciprocated with just as much enthusiasm. He lifted a hand to her cheek and held her there, breathing her in, reveling in her. Feeling terribly bold, he flicked his tongue on her lips, and she _whimpered_ into his mouth, immediately parting her lips to give him admittance, and they entangled themselves in one another.

When they finally broke apart, after what must have been dozens of minutes later, their breathing uneven and laborious, Hermione purred into his neck and giggled.

“Thanks for making me wait six years for that,” she said glibly.

“You wot?” he asked, bewildered. Had she said _six years?_

“Harry, what did you think would happen when you saved a little girl from a troll? Are you really that surprised?”

“Well, yes, obviously. I am a bit thick, you know.”

“I’m well aware.”

“So, you’ve been – since _first year_? Why did you never say anything?”

“I did. Do you remember me telling you last year about the whole Chosen One, love potion debacle?”

He nodded.

“Do you remember _exactly_ what I said?”

He racked his brain for the memory. “You said… You said I’d never been more fanciable. You count _that_ as telling me you were interested?” he asked incredulously.

“I’m no better at this sort of thing than you are!” she barked. “I-I was sure that you’d never see me in that way, anyway. I was always looking for some sort of sign, some hint that you might be – but you didn’t, and I could only carry a torch for so long. So, when I realized that Ron _was_ , I thought maybe I’d just call it a loss.”

“That…makes sense,” he admitted. “To be fair, I didn’t even really start noticing girls until fifth year, not in any way that mattered. It wasn’t you, if that’s what you’re worried about. By the time I really noticed, I thought you and Ron – so I didn’t even consider it. I think growing up with the Dursleys really did a number on my social skills.”

“So, it was all just bad timing then?” she asked hopefully.

“Yeah,” he answered happily, “Yeah, I reckon so.”

“So… I’m assuming the timing is better now?”

“Er, well. I mean, if you’d like – Yes, I’d – Blimey, this is hard. Yes, I want to be with you. For us to be – you know – together. If that’s something you’re at all interested in.”

“Well, it certainly would make us sharing a bed less awkward.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be _crass_ , Potter. We still need to think about our next move.”

They lied there, wrapped up in each other, and discussed plans and possible hiding places for the remaining two horcruxes. By the time the sun had fully risen over them, their exhaustion was bone deep and overwhelming. However, even the realization that their talk had given them no reputable leads in the hunt wasn’t enough to discourage Harry. When the scorching sensation in his chest dulled to a manageable tingle, he allowed himself to drift into a dreamless slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're welcome.


	6. the forest of dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few more canonical deviations in this chapter, including a major one toward the end.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Trust me, if I did, I would've done better than Fleamont and Euphemia. Honestly...

Harry rose quickly and without delay, stretching his aching limbs and shaking the last dying remnants of sleep from his weary body. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so well-rested and _ready_ to face the day and its challenges. He shuffled to the sink and brushed his teeth quickly but efficiently, a lesson ingrained in him by the witch currently still curled in the blankets on their bunk, snoring softly. Grabbing his wand and his set of toiletries from Hermione’s bag, he set on a brisk walk to the nearby river, cast a warming charm on his body, and bathed, scouring the grime, muck and blood from his frame.

Freshly dressed and pleasantly clean, he sat at the bank of the river and familiarized himself with the frosted hilltop surrounding their campsite. He felt peculiarly exposed by the lack of trees, the only greenery in sight being a few isolated shrubs and bushes. The birds twittering in the open sky filled his chest with a keen sense of contentedness, and he whistled along cheerily as he made his way back to the tent.

His jovial demeanor was briefly broken by his recollection of the previous night’s events. As he walked, he took advantage of the relative peace and quiet to organize his memories. He recalled with a dull sense of horror how very close they had come to dying, more than once, and though the risk had ultimately been worth it to destroy Nagini, Harry didn’t feel keen on repeating the experience. And Voldemort had found the picture of the thief, knew who he was, and how he was involved in their struggle. Harry had to concede that Voldemort simply had more information than him, which was a sobering admission.

“Morning.”

Hermione was curled up in one of the threadbare armchairs, buried in dusty tome, but had smiled up at him as he entered the tent. He shuffled over to her and leaned down, planting a swift peck on her lips and snatching her cup of tea before taking a sip. He planted himself on the armrest of the chair.

“Morning,” he responded. “Sleep well?”

“Very,” she purred. “Also, I found him. The boy in the picture.”

She lifted the book from her lap and handed it to him. The copy of _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_ was in mint condition.

“I nicked it from Bathilda’s sitting room before we escaped. She didn’t really have a need for it,” she said darkly.

“No, I suppose she didn’t.”

Harry felt a perverse sort of pleasure in the idea of finally knowing all of Dumbledore’s secrets. The man’s uncanny ability to play _all_ of his cards close to the chest had vexed Harry for years. In life, the headmaster had been an enigma. Now in death, it seemed, his secrets weren’t held in nearly as high regard. Harry would finally have the truths he’d requested.

“I know I shouldn’t be,” he began, “but I’m just so _angry_ with him. He left us with nothing. A book, a Snitch, and a makeshift cigarette lighter. No plans, no ideas, nothing else. I don’t mean any disrespect; I know how you are with authority figures – “

“No, in this case, I agree with you. Dumbledore left too much unsaid that could’ve helped us.”

“Really?”

“Harry, my philosophy is to respect figures of authority until they give me reason not to, not to just blindly take them at their word.”

“Right,” he mumbled. “Well then.”

He rifled through the pages of the book, peering at the photographs. One showed a small family: a handsome looking woman, two auburn-haired boys, and a fragile looking blonde girl. When he finally found the picture he was searching for a read the caption, he froze, and the book dropped out of his hands to the floor with a _thud_.

“What is it?”

Harry picked the book up and found the page again, handing it to Hermione. When she read the caption, her eyes shot wide and found his.

“ _Grindelwald_?”

She quickly found the corresponding chapter that dealt with Dumbledore’s apparent friendship with Gellert Grindelwald and read it aloud. With every word, Harry found himself growing more and more appalled and disgusted with his old mentor. Any veneer of respect he’d held for Dumbledore evaporated in moments, leaving him with nothing but resigned indifference.

When Hermione finished reading, she slammed the book shut and threw it angrily across the tent.

“I can’t _believe_ him! This entire time, we’ve held him up on a pedestal, paraded him as a champion of the Light, and he was part of Grindelwald’s conquest _from the beginning_!” she raged. “And all that ‘for the Greater Good’, ‘right to rule’ rubbish, it’s just “Magic is Might’ in a different package. I knew he had to have had flaws – no man is perfect. But _this_ …this is far worse than I could have imagined.

“On the other hand,” she countered herself, “this is Rita Skeeter we’re talking about. The only unbiased, factual piece of journalism she’s ever written was the interview you did for _The Quibbler_.”

“Something tells me she’s got her facts straight with this one,” Harry murmured hotly. “The _bastard_. Conquering Muggles because he believed himself superior, locking his sister away. Do you know what happens when you corral and bind an unstable magical child? What it creates?”

“Yes, that’s what I was thinking as well. Skeeter had that wrong.”

“I just don’t understand! How could he go from _that_ to how he was when we knew him? What changed him? His sister’s death? Teaching at Hogwarts? What made him change from a Draco Malfoy precursor to the man we knew – the man we _thought_ we knew, rather.”

“I don’t know, Harry. We may never know. But you shouldn’t dwell on this. I know it’s not pleasant reading – “ she shot him a glare after he snorted loudly. “ – but in the end he _was_ the one to defeat and capture Grindelwald. And he did change, no matter the reasons. I think – I think the real reason you’re angry with him is because he never told you any of this himself.”

“Maybe,” he sighed thickly. “Probably. Think of what he asked from me, “Mione. How often he demanded I risk my life, over and over again. He just expected me – us – to follow him blindly. I thought, more than anyone, that I had earned his trust. He placed so much on my shoulders but couldn’t be bothered to tell me the truth.”

His voice cracked with emotion, and Hermione wrapped her arms around him in sympathy. He shed a few isolated tears of anger and pain as she murmured in his ear.

“I don’t understand either, Harry. But he left this to you. You were the only one he trusted to finish it. And you know you don’t have to do it alone.”

He smiled weakly in gratitude, holding her close. After a few minutes, Hermione told him to help her pack up to move camp. She promised a more sheltered area to shield them from the thick snowfall. She wanted to leave quickly; she said she’d heard voices and people moving outside while he was gone.

Half an hour later they were packed and ready to move on. Harry had decided to place the horcrux in his mokeskin pouch rather than directly on his skin, to which Hermione agreed. After dispelling their protective spells, Hermione wrapped her arms around him and they Disapparated, emerging from the twisting darkness into a copse of enormous trees.

“The Forest of Dean,” Hermione said before he could ask. “Mum and dad brought me camping here once.”

“It’s beautiful,” Harry replied, tugging out tent poles from the beaded bag whilst Hermione set up their enchantments.

The forest was a biting sort of cold that slipped through clothing and soaked down to the bone. The thick masses of tress blocked most of the wind, however, and they kept mostly to the tent. Hermione conjured her favorite blue flames to keep them warm, and they huddled together as much as possible with the flimsy excuse that bodily contact would preserve warmth. Harry was still mildly distraught over their recent revelations concerning Dumbledore, but after a few more appeasing conversations with Hermione on the subject, he found himself caring less and less about it, instead turning his focus back onto their hunt where it should’ve been.

Due to Hermione’s earlier claim of hearing voices, Harry kept his sneakoscope out on the dinner table at all times and had established a watch rotation for nights. He found himself missing the feeling of sharing a bed with Hermione, as it had become a source of comfort for him. After two nights of fitful, interrupted sleep, he felt on edge. The darkness outside their tent brought their narrow escape from Godric’s Hollow back to the forefront of his mind.

He’d been on watch for a few hours, having refused Hermione at their scheduled turnover and telling her to get some rest, when a flicker of light in his peripheral vision caught his eye. He whipped his wand out and stood quickly. The light suddenly became blinding, burning his eyes, and he lifted a hand to his face. All at once the light diminished and a silver-white doe stood in its place. She was ethereal, silent, and altogether beautiful.

She stepped toward him, her pace slow and patient, her hooves never exactly touching the ground. Harry didn’t know who the Patronus belonged to, or how it knew he was there. He had a sudden impulse to shout to Hermione, but something stopped him. He feared that if he made any loud noises, any sudden movements, that the doe would vanish.

She turned and walked away, deeper into the forest, and he followed on instinct. His inner voice told him to be cautious, that he might have been falling into a trap, so he held his wand aloft and alert and moved forward. He crept along after the doe, trying to be as silent as possible but not quite achieving anything resembling stealth. After several minutes she came to a stop, turned her great head towards him, and vanished.

“ _Lumos_!” he whispered, taking in his surroundings.

He was in a small clearing, the snowy ground littered with fallen leaves and debris. He was completely alone and the forest around him was eerily silent. As he turned, something gleamed in the wand-light and he walked toward it. there was a small pool in the middle of the clearing, and in its depths –

“The sword!” he whispered to himself. The sword of Gryffindor lay at the bed of the glittering pool.

Harry turned from the water, wrenching his eyes, forcing himself to take in every minute detail of the clearing. Someone had placed the sword in the pool. Someone had sent the doe to him. Someone had _known_ where he and Hermione were camped out. He searched and searched for any sign of life, even casting a quiet _Homenum revelio_ charm, but was met with no sign of human life nearby. Whoever had ‘helped’ him, they had clearly disappeared. This gave him little relief, however, and he turned his attention back to the sword with more than little hesitation.

He tried summoning it with no success. He tried outwardly claiming his loyalty to Hogwarts and Godric Gryffindor with equal failure. Harry thought back to the words of the hat, of how it had described the House of Gryffindor in his youth: _Their daring, nerve, and chivalry set Gryffindors apart_.

“Fuck,” he muttered. That water looked _cold_.

He wasted no time. He removed his clothes, chuckling ruefully at his lack of ‘chivalry’ at the moment, silently thankful that Hermione was not there to see the clearly visible evidence of the subzero temperature. He sat his clothes a few feet away from the edge of the pool, wrapping the mokeskin pouch in several jumpers. He’d debated putting the locket on just in case, but after the incident with Nagini, he’d decided against it. He would only be underwater for a few moments.

“ _Diffindo._ ”

The top layer of ice split with an earsplitting crack. The glittering black surface of the pool reflected the pitiful moonlight, glistening ominously. Refusing to allow himself a chance to hesitate, he dove into the shallow pool. Every nerve in his body shrieked in agonizing remonstration. The water was not just cold, it was _glacial_. The water seemed to be freezing him solid, Before he had a chance to flinch, however, his hand gripped the sword’s handle and he lifted it.

Harry leapt from the pool and landed in a heap on the snow, heaving and shivering in equal measure. While the air had been biting cold before, it was practically unbearable while soaked to the bone. He heard footsteps nearby, the sound of someone running toward him, and he lifted his wand and the sword toward the newcomer. He assumed it was Hermione, somehow having found him and come to help, but he couldn’t see clearly with his glasses still lying on his clothes.

He quickly stumbled over to the pile of clothing and pushed his glasses to his face, turning back quickly to see a heaving Ron Weasley, doubled over with his hands planted to his knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look who's back
> 
> back again
> 
> (it's temporary)


	7. the locket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I am not a TERF, therefore I cannot be J.K. Rowling. QED, I cannot possibly own Harry Potter.

“Are – you – _mental_?” Ron heaved.

Harry was in shock, frozen (somewhat literally) to the spot. Nothing could have prepared him for Ron’s reappearance. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, thinking he might have been hallucinating, but Ron was still there: gaunt, lanky, and covered in grime and dirt. Harry began pulling his many layers of clothes back on, trying to find words.

“R-Ron?” Harry said at last, teeth chattering, his voice strangled in shock. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean?” Ron asked, looking confused. “Didn’t you send the Patronus?”

“What? No, of course not. My Patronus is a stag.”

“Oh, right. Antlers.”

Harry looped Hagrid’s pouch back around his neck and pulled a few more sweaters on, knelt to grab the sword, and turned back to Ron.

“So,” he began, “how come you’re here?”

Ron clearly had expected the question to come later, if at all. He began pacing back and forth a bit, looking a little frantic.

“I – well, I remember what you said before I left. I didn’t try to come back until I saw the Patronus. I thought you and Hermione might be in trouble, so I followed it here. I’ve been out here for hours.”

There was a terribly uncomfortable pause, wherein the decision of whether to allow Ron back in weighed heavily on Harry’s mind. He decided to hold off. He needed Hermione’s input for something this important.

“So,” Ron said after clearing his throat. “You got the sword?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “But I have no clue how it got there, or who put it there. I reckon it was whoever cast the doe Patronus. Do you have any idea who it might’ve been?”

“Haven’t the foggiest,” Ron said unsurprisingly. “You reckon that’s the real sword?”

“Only one way to find out, yeah?” said Harry.

Harry pulled the locket out of the mokeskin pouch. It was twitching and ticking loudly, eager to escape what it must have sensed was its destruction. Harry felt a thrill at the prospect of _finally_ being rid of the wretched necklace once and for all. He cast a quick _Lumos_ and searched for a proper spot, and found one just a few meters away: a flat stone outcrop in the shade of a sycamore.

“Come on,” he said. He handed the locket to Ron and told him to set it down on the stone and keep an eye on it, taking no chances that the horcrux might pull something and try to escape.

“I’m going to open it with Parseltongue,” he said, “and as soon as it opens, you stab it. It might try some kind of mind arts or try and fight back. If it does, you have to fight it with everything you've got, you understand?”

“No,” Ron said. “No, it needs to be you. That thing’s worse for me than it was for you and Hermione, I don’t think I could do it. I won't be able to fight it off. The stuff it made me think – I guess I was thinking it anyway, but the locket made it worse. It affected me more than you, so it makes sense for you to destroy it. You’ll have an easier go of it.”

Harry nodded, understanding. He only hoped that Ron was right, that he'd be able to fight it off. Ron placed the locket on the stone gingerly and stood behind it, waiting.

“On three,” said Harry. Ron nodded.

“One…two…three… _Open._ ”

The telltale hiss of Parseltongue passed his lips and the hinges of the tiny locket swung open. Harry froze in terror.

A pair of dark eyes stared up at Harry from the panes of the locket, twitching and wide: Tom Riddle’s eyes, before his descent into the Darker magics that mutated him. They gleamed in recognition and triumph.

Harry heard Ron telling him to stab the locket, to move, to do _something_.

He raised the sword above his head and stepped forward. The locket ticked and thrashed on the stone, but Ron held it firmly.

Then a voice hissed from the locket.

“ _Harry Potter, I have seen your fears. I know your heart_.”

“Stab it, Harry!” Ron yelled. “Kill it!”

“ _I have seen what lies in your soul, boy. You have such darkness in you, such fury. The magic coursing through you, so familiar…”_

“Harry, don’t listen to it, dammit!” Ron screamed over the voice, but Harry could not hear him. It was as though Riddle’s voice had pierced his soul, and he could not move.

“ _Abandoned by everyone who loved you; your arrogant father, your filthy Mudblood mother…_ _How alike we are, Harry... Abandoned twice by the boy you called a brother…_ She _will abandon you as well, the one you love… Whether by hate or by death, you will lose… Everything…”_

“Harry, please! Stab it!” Ron bellowed. Riddle’s eyes in the locket gleamed scarlet and a piercing shriek rent the air.

From the locket’s windows, a figure crawled out in front of Harry, decaying and skin mottled grey. Hermione’s living corpse reached out to him, her movements spasmic and shuddering. She smiled at him, and Harry saw the rotted flesh of her cheek fall away. Nausea flooded his stomach.

“ _If I had known what choosing you meant,”_ Riddle-Hermione choked out, “ _I would have left with him… You bring death upon those close to you…”_

“No,” Harry pleaded. “No – no – no – you’re not real.”

“ _Harry… Dear Harry, you are but a curse upon the world around you… We are all better for your absence,”_ cooed Riddle-Hermione. She jerked suddenly, her spine snapping backwards, hands outstretched to him. “ _Loving you has brought me nothing but pain.”_

Harry screamed in rage and drove the sword down on both Riddle-Hermione and the locket. Ron leapt out of the way. There was a discordant wail, a shriek that tore at Harry’s very soul, and he sank to his knees, wrapping his arms around his torso.

Ron helped him to his feet, but Harry saw a tightness in his expression that bode ill for whatever came next. Shaking his head, he picked up the remnants of the locket and shoved it back into the mokeskin pouch. After his breathing evened out, he turned to Ron.

“After you left,” he said, “we had to move on. Both of us. We couldn’t just wallow around in pity and waste time. We killed the snake. We worked together on things, didn’t argue or ignore one another. We’re a team. And we – Ron, I know this isn’t easy for you. But we’re together now. I – I _love_ Hermione, in every way I know how to…”

Ron nodded but said nothing. Harry motioned for him to follow, and they walked back to the campsite in complete silence. Harry could sense that he had several difficult conversations to deal with in his immediate future, and after what the locket had shown him, having those conversations were the last thing he wanted. He just wanted to sleep. Ron’s eyes were red and puffy, he was obviously distraught at the revelation that Harry and Hermione had gotten together in his absence.

Just before they reached the wards, Ron cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said thickly. “I’m sorry I left. I said things – things about you, things about your _parents_ , Christ… I never meant any of it, but I know that doesn’t make it any better.”

“Mate, I told you before you left that I’d forgiven you for anything you could do to me. It’s not me you have to plead your case to,” Harry said. “But you need to accept what I told you at the pool. The whole jealousy thing won’t work anymore. We’re a team, and you have to come to terms with that if you want to come back. If you can’t, no hard feelings. You can still help in other ways if you want.”

“Right,” Ron said quickly.

“Right. I’ll go grab Hermione, and we’ll meet you back here, yeah?”

Harry moved through the wards and toward the tent, savoring the resplendent warmth inside. Hermione’s bluebell flames radiated heat throughout the canvas, and he sank down in a chair for a moment.

“So. Where’ve you been?”

Harry leapt to his feet, raising his wand.

“Harry Potter, if you point that wand at me, you _will_ regret it,” Hermione fumed. She had apparently awoken in the night and found him gone, and was very unhappy with him.

“I can explain…” he began.

“Sit,” she demanded. He obeyed. “Talk.”

Suddenly fearing for his life, Harry quickly told her of the past two hours, from the doe Patronus to finding the sword. He faltered at whether to include Ron’s bizarre reappearance and decided to tell her the truth.

“Where is he?” she asked.

“Outside the wards. I told him to wait there for us. He, er, wants to be _back_ back. I told him I’d have to talk to you about it.”

“Why would you need to talk to me about it?” she asked, tapping her fingers on the table.

“Because,” he said bemusedly, “we’re a team. I won’t make decisions for you, Hermione. And I won’t make decisions this important without talking to you first. I thought – that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

She nodded absentmindedly. He fidgeted in his seat for a moment before retrieving what remained of the horcrux from his pouch and setting it on the table in front of her, followed by the sword of Gryffindor.

“You destroyed it,” she said.

“I did.”

“Did – did it fight back?”

“Yes,” he said quietly, “Yes, it did. The things it said – things it _showed_ me…” He couldn’t bear to meet her eyes, imagining the Riddle-Hermione and what being close to Harry could mean for the one still living in front of him. And an altogether different fear had risen in him: a fear that Riddle was _right,_ that there was darkness in him. he felt dirty, tainted. Hermione leapt across the table and wrapped herself around him, straddling his lap and running her hands through his hair as he shook.

“It wasn’t real,” she said softly in his ear. “Whatever you saw, whatever it said, it was just that part of _him_ trying to escape its fate. Look at the locket, Harry. You did it, you _won_. Two more and we’re done.”

“Two more,” he murmured. “I guess we need to figure out what to do about Ron.”

Hermione sighed heavily. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“I – I, er, told him that we’re together. I hope that’s alright? Only, I didn’t want it to be a surprise later on. That is to say, if we decide to let him come back, or if he even really wants to. He might just feel guilty, I dunno. It’s Ron.”

“He’s really not as complicated as all that. We’ll talk, he’ll talk, and then we’ll decide together.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Locket make Harry's brain go brrr. Also, I have this headcanon that Ron's always known that if Harry and Hermione ever wised up and admitted their feelings, he would be playing second fiddle forever. So he could either accept it and move on, or be a prat. I guess you'll see next chapter what he chooses.


	8. the reconciliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Hogwarts Legacy got delayed to 2022. I may be sad. Also, I don't own Harry Potter.

It was awkward.

“This is awkward,” Harry said quietly.

It was a bad idea.

“This was a bad idea,” Harry muttered to himself.

Hermione was glaring fiercely at Ron, who was glaring at Harry, although with less resolve. Harry was purposefully staring off into space, focusing on a particularly interesting bit of tree. After their talk, Harry and Hermione had made their way to where Ron stood at the edge of the wards surrounding the camp. Her plan of simply talking to Ron had fizzled out the moment she laid eyes on him. Thus, their current predicament.

Harry sighed deeply. “Right. So, this is weird. There’s some bad blood. We should air it out and let it be done with. Then we can decide where to go from there, yes?” He finished, looking back and forth between the other two. They both simply nodded, neither wanting to have the first say.

“Why are you back?” Hermione asked suddenly.

“Well,” Ron began, “I wanted to come back and apologize the moment I’d left. That locket really hit me hard, affected me worse. The things I said, I was thinking them, sure, but I wouldn’t have actually said any of it without the locket. But, er, as soon as I Disapparated I ran afoul of a group of Snatchers.”

“Snatchers?”

“They’re these gangs the Ministry’s set up. They get gold for turning in Muggle-borns and blood traitors. Real nasty blokes. Anyway, they saw I was around Hogwarts age and tried to round me up, took my wand and all that. Had a right scrap with ‘em. Stole one of their wands, got my own wand back and Disapparated. Splinched myself again – that miffed – back ‘round where you were. I must’ve been a few miles off though, because by the time I made it back to the riverbank, you’d gone. No trace.”

“How horrid,” Hermione scathed. Harry recognized the tone she used when she reverted to The Scholar. “A fist fight and a few missing fingernails, it must’ve been _dreadful_ for you. Really throws things into perspective, eh Harry? We only had to fight a giant snake that had burrowed itself into the body of an old woman and then barely escape You-Know-Who with our lives.”

“You _what_?” Ron choked.

“Yeah, she’s got you there, mate,” Harry said. “Nagini – Riddle’s snake – got the jump on us in Godric’s Hollow, but I cut her head off. She got me good, though. Sorry about your nails.”

“Oh, shove off.”

“Hold on,” Hermione said, suddenly pensive. “How’d you find us? I’m only asking because if it was some mistake we made with the protection spells, we can fix it before we have any more unwanted guests.”

Ron glared at her but didn’t retaliate. He pulled something out of his pocket and held it up for them: The Deluminator.

“This,” he said. “Every now and again I would hear my name being called, but when I’d turn around and look, I’d be alone. Thought I was going mental. I was hearing bits and pieces of conversations, too. Random things, but eventually I figured out it was your voices. Earlier tonight, I was cleaning out my stuff and heard it again, coming from the Deluminator. So, I clicked it. Light went out in the room, yeah, but there was another light outside the window.

“Anyway, I had this feeling that it might have something to do with the two of you, that you might be in trouble or hurt or something. But then the light sort of floated toward me, right into my chest. And when it did, I knew where I had to go. I can’t really explain how. So, I grabbed my things and Disapparated and came out in the woods out there. I wandered about for a few hours and had nearly given up when I saw the doe. I assume Harry’s told you the rest?”

Hermione nodded tersely.

“I wonder whose it was,” she said to herself. She shook herself out of her reverie and stood askance, still staring at Ron. “Well?”

“Well, what?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed.

“Harry said you wanted to come back. Is that right?”

Ron suddenly looked apprehensive. “I – er, well, yeah, I did – “

“Did?” she asked. “Not do?”

“No, no, I _do_. But I mean – you two seem to have things well in hand. I don’t want to get in the way, you know. I’ll be honest, the whole camping thing isn’t for me, even without roughing it in the winter. _But_ ,” he said before Hermione could get on his case, “I do have somewhere where the two of you could rest and get your bearings, if you need it.”

He looked up at the both of them with a hint of resentment and sadness in his eyes. "And to be honest," he said, "It'll take me a while to get used to _this_. The two of you, I mean. I'm not angry or anything, it's just..." he trailed off.

“Right,” Hermione said. It seemed that Ron’s continued sincerity was wearing down on her anger. “Look, Ronald, I’m still very cross with you. But you did come running when you thought we were in danger, and that means a lot to me – to both of us, I’m sure.” Harry nodded in agreement. “I _do_ think Harry and I have things in hand here, and I don’t think I’m quite ready to trust you enough to let you back in. Even if I believed that’s what you really wanted.”

“I get it,” Ron said quietly. “No, really, I do. I was a bastard, just like you said, Harry. I’ve been staying with Bill and Fleur since I left, and Fleur tore into me something fierce, let me tell you. Put a lot of things in perspective, I think. I think Dumbledore might’ve given me the Deluminator because he knew I’d leave. Or that I’d want to come back, or something. The man was a nutter.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “We’ve had our fair share of revelations about Dumbledore as well.”

“Finally read Skeeter’s book, have you?” Ron asked.

“Skimmed it.”

“The only right way to read a book, in my opinion.”

 _“Anyway,”_ Hermione said sharply, looking at Harry. He realized swiftly that she was waiting for him to say his piece.

“Right,” Harry fumbled. “Look mate, I appreciate you coming out to help, really. But it’s like the both of you’ve said, we do have things down pat here. I’m not entirely convinced having the three of us back together would be for the best at the moment myself. Might cause even more problems. But if we need you again, we could always just call your name and the Deluminator should be able to get you to us, right?”

“I don’t see why not,” Ron said. It was becoming clear to Harry that Ron didn’t really _want_ to be back with them at all, as normally he would’ve been thoroughly put out by Hermione’s earlier ranting. In fact, the moment that he and Hermione had said no, a look of relief had washed over Ron’s face.

“You said you nicked a wand off a Snatcher, yeah?” Harry asked. When Ron nodded and drew it from a pocket, Harrry asked: “Do you mind if I have it? I was thinking it might be useful to have a spare just in case.”

“Sure,” he said, tossing it to Harry. “Oh, right. I have some food for the both of you as well. It’s all got stasis charms on it, so it’ll keep. Fleur’s been going mad shut inside all the time, so she’s dealing with the cabin fever by cooking nonstop. Food everywhere.”

“Must be paradise for you,” Hermione muttered under her breath. Harry had to agree. Good, hot food _and_ Fleur in one house. No wonder Ron didn't want to come back.

Ron pulled out several baskets of food: sandwiches, fruits and vegetables, dried meats, bags of crisps and even a few boxes of chocolate frogs and sugar quills. He handed it all over to them before pulling out a small piece of parchment.

“Here,” he said, giving Harry the paper. “If you need a place to rest or whatever, this is Bill and Fleur’s place. I told them that it’s possible the two of you might show up at any time, so they’ll be ready if you do.”

Harry glanced at the paper before handing it off to Hermione. It read:

**_The home of Bill and Fleur Weasley is Shell Cottage located on the outskirts of Tinworth, Cornwall_ **

****

****

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry said. “I really appreciate this.”

“Of course,” he said simply. He raised an eyebrow. “Hang on. How’d you two find out about the Taboo?”

“Taboo? What are you on about?”

“You and Hermione haven't said You-Know-Who’s name once since I got here. The Ministry’s jinxed the name somehow. It breaks through protective enchantments. I’m not sure how it works exactly. Bill and Fleur explained it to me, but it went pretty far above my head. Anyway, that’s how they found us at that café in London.”

“Hell, as if we didn’t have enough to worry about. We had no clue, I’ve just been calling him Riddle, and Hermione never quite caught on to using his _title_.”

“Lucky break, that. I reckon it was their way of rooting out Order members. Only people who openly opposed him ever really used the name, anyway. Pretty clever, actually…”

Harry saw a bit of light on the horizon: the sun was rising.

“Alright, well I suppose I should be getting back. Bill and Fleur’ll go spare if they check the room and I’m not there. I – er, I really am sorry. To both of you. You've always done better by me than I deserve. If you need _anything_ , please let me know. You know where to find me.”

Hermione nodded slightly, and Harry held out his hand. Ron shook it briefly and Disapparated with a crack.

Harry grabbed Hermione by the hand and led her back to the camp. He was inordinately tired and starved to boot. But he couldn’t help but feel that some rip in the fabric in the universe had been slightly mended. Or at the very least, it had been haphazardly stitched back together.

“That went rather well, I think,” Harry said casually. “At least you didn’t set a flock of birds on him this time.”

“I could set them on you if you’re feeling nostalgic,” Hermione deadpanned.

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

She laughed, and it was such a wonderful sound. The sunrise had broken through the trees, bathing them both in a mixture of golden and pink hues. The pale light threw Hermione into sharp detail and Harry was spellbound. He felt like an idiot for never noticing Hermione before. Even gaunt from lack of decent food and overtired, she was absolutely radiant. He was so distracted he didn’t notice her smirking at him knowingly.

“It’s rude to stare, Harry.”

“You have nice skin,” he said absently before slapping himself on the forehead, mortified. “Please ignore me, I’m obviously delusional.”

“Delusional? So, you _don’t_ think I have nice skin?”

“I think I need to go to sleep before I embarrass myself further.”

“I’m feeling a bit tired myself. Fancy a kip?”

“ _Please_.”

Once they entered the tent, Hermione opened one of the innumerable baskets of food and unwrapped a couple of sandwiches, which they scarfed down with a reckless abandon that would’ve made Ron proud. Satisfied and sluggish, they wrapped themselves in each other and the multitude of blankets scattered around the tent, eagerly getting comfortable and ready for what promised to be a fantastic nap. Harry sighed contentedly and laid his head on a pillow. He was nearly asleep when he felt something move on his face. He peeked to see Hermione removing his glasses and setting them on the bedside table, smiling gently at him. After a second, she leaned over and kissed him chastely before sidling down herself.

“You know,” he murmured, “I reckon you fancy me a bit.”

He felt her gentle, sleepy laugh vibrate the pillow. “Is that so?” she asked.

“Mhm. It’s alright, though. I reckon I fancy you a bit, too.”

She moved her head from the pillow to his chest and curled herself around him, and that's how Harry drifted off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all you true Ron-haters, I'm sorry. I'm not his biggest fan by any means, but overtly bashing characters in fics is so 2008. However, the fact that you're reading this suggests that you, like me, believe that Ron was never good enough for Hermione. On this, we agree. Thanks for reading!


	9. the rookery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Just as Harry does not actually own any Lordly titles of nobility, I do not own Harry Potter.

“We’re going to go see Xenophilius Lovegood.”

Harry looked up from the pages of _Most Potente Potions_ to see a bedraggled Hermione. She had obviously just gotten out of bed.

“Well, good morning to you, too,” he said cheekily. “So, Xenophilius Lovegood. Why?”

She took a seat across from him at the table, taking a deep breath. She said, “Well, it’s about that mark. The one from _Beedle the Bard_ and the gravestone in Godric’s Hollow. There’s something about it, and I can’t help but think it’s important. I mean, look at _this!_ ”

She shoved _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_ into Harry’s hands. He perused the page she pointed to and saw the letter that Dumbledore had written to Grindelwad in his youth. Harry was deeply confused for a few moments until he reached the end of the letter. He gasped aloud as he saw that Albus had replaced the _A_ in his signature with the same symbol, the same triangular rune.

“So,” Harry began sheepishly, “the same symbol pops up out of nowhere in multiple places: the wedding, _Beedle the Bard_ , Godric’s Hollow, and now in Dumbledore’s letters. And you don’t find that suspiciously coincidental?”

Hermione was nonplussed. She had obviously expected Harry to automatically agree with her reasoning, thin though it was.

“I do,” she said defensively. “It’s dodgy, fair enough, but we’ve been out here for nearly a week with no leads. We need to get back on track. _This_ ,” she declared, jabbing her finger at the rune, “This is a lead, and we need to take it.”

“It’s a huge risk, ‘Mione. I don’t want another repeat of Godric’s Hollow.”

“Every move we make is a risk, Harry. We can’t sit here with our tails between our legs.”

“That’s not what I’m suggesting.”

“Then what _are_ you suggesting?”

“I don’t know – we need to be searching for the Horcruxes, and this seems like a – I dunno – a side project.”

“Do you have any better ideas?”

She took Harry’s silence as an answer.

“I thought not. Look, we’ve got nothing. We don’t know where the cup is, we don’t even know _what_ the last one is. I’ve got a lead on something big; I can feel it. You need to trust me.”

“I _do_ trust you, Hermione. That’s not in question. I’m just trying to keep us safe!”

“We’re never going to be safe with these Horcruxes around!” she yelled. “The longer we sit out here, doing nothing, the more power You-Know-Who amasses. This is _your_ task, Harry, but if you can’t come up with a better idea, then I say we should go see Mr. Lovegood.”

Harry was fuming, glaring daggers into Hermione’s eyes. But she was resolute, staring right back with level intensity. Harry could tell that he wouldn’t be able to talk Hermione out of her idea and figured that it would be wise to entertain her theory. Mr. Lovegood _had_ been an ally after all, it couldn’t hurt to see if he had any helpful information.

“Fine,” he conceded. “You win. We’ll go and see him. Might be nice to see Luna anyway.”

“She’s not at Hogwarts?” Hermione asked, all traces of former irritation replaced by concern.

“No,” he said. “She was there before the holidays; I saw her on the map. But she never came back. I’m assuming Mr. Lovegood wised up and kept her home. Speaking of which, do you know where the Lovegoods live?”

“Yes. They live near the Burrow actually, just outside the village. We should go as soon as possible.”

The fresh breeze of a perfectly clear day met them as they Apparated to a hillside outside the hamlet of Ottery St. Catchpole the following morning. It was still very cold, Harry thought, but it was no longer snowing, and the sun shone clearly in the early morning. From the hilltop, Harry could see the entire village. Tiny houses and shops lined empty cobbled streets and roads; Hermione though it was all rather charming. Harry looked toward where he figured the Burrow to be, but with distance and his poor eyesight, he saw nothing.

Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak over the pair of them and pointed towards the low string of hills just outside the village proper. They passed a lone cottage, but it appeared deserted, and Hermione remarked that a relatively average-looking home couldn’t possibly contain a family such as the Lovegoods. She was proven to be correct about half an hour later as, when they crested a hill, Harry burst into laughter.

“Barking mad,” he said fondly, shaking his head. The odd-looking home, which could only belong to the Lovegoods, resembled an old castle tower. Dark stone comprised its façade, and it would have looked intimidating if not for the multitude of flowers, trees, and oddly-shaped shrubbery that surrounded it.

As the couple reached the top of the hill, Harry said: “Yeah, it’s theirs.” He pointed to a series of hand-painted signs that had been haphazardly nailed to a decrepit wooden gate. The first read,

****

**_THE QUIBBLER, EDITOR:_ **

**_X. LOVEGOOD_ **

****

**_ASSISTANT EDITOR:_ **

**_L. LOVEGOOD_ **

****

the second,

****

**_PICK YOUR OWN MISTLETOE_ **

****

the third,

****

**_KEEP OFF THE DIRIGIBLE PLUMS_ **

****

and the fourth,

**_BEWARE THE SENTIENT STUMP_ **

****

****

Hermione cackled quietly to herself, while Harry shook violently to contain his own laughter. He was very fond of Luna Lovegood, yet unlike most people who knew and like Luna, he liked her _because_ of her eccentricities, not in spite of them.

The Rook house was indeed surrounded on all sides by a congregation off weird, seemingly mismatched plant life. Two feeble-looking crab apple trees swayed in the winter wind, a bush of what looked to be orange radishes, even what appeared to be a tree stump that would pull itself out of the ground with a _pop!_ and walk around a bit, then lower itself into a different spot and spread its roots. Hermione watched this particular plant with keen interest and had to be dragged headlong to the front door.

Harry took the Cloak off and handed it to Hermione before checking himself. He had taken to stuffing the spare wand Ron had given him into his sock, betting on the assumption that if they were caught and their wands taken, no one would think to search him there. Hermione carried everything of worth in her beaded bag, which she clutched with an iron grip. Giving her a curt nod, Harry rapped on the door thrice and waited.

Barely a few seconds passed before the door was flung open by a man almost unrecognizable to Harry. The winter had obviously not been kind to Xenophilius Lovegood. His long stark-white hair was greasy and unruly and he was wearing what appeared to be a stained nightshirt with barn owls flapping angrily around the fabric, incensed at the soiled nature of the clothing. He looked nothing like the peculiarly dapper man he’d presented himself to be at the wedding.

“Yes? What is it? What do you – “ he had begun in a shrilly, cantankerous voice, but stopped once he saw Harry’s face. His demeanor went quickly from panicked to absolutely _terrified_. Harry immediately regretted coming. What if Mr. Lovegood was being watched? What if Harry coming to see him put the Lovegoods in danger with Voldemort’s regime?

Hermione seemed not to have such compunctions. She held out her hand confidently and said: “Good morning, Mr. Lovegood, I’m Hermione Granger. We met at Bill Weasley’s wedding? And this is Harry.”

Mr. Lovegood did not take Hermione’s hand, indeed he had not moved an inch since seeing Harry’s face, except that his entire body seemed to vibrating fiercely.

“Mr. Lovegood?” Harry said. “Sir, would it be alright if we came in? We have a few questions that you seem uniquely equipped to answer. We won’t take much of your time.”

“I… I’m not sure I’d be much help, Mr. P-P-Potter,” he whispered, his bottom lip trembling. He cast a quick glance behind him into the house, and then around their shoulders into his lawn. “But yes, please, by all means. Come inside. Quickly though, _quickly_!”

He pulled the pair inside and hurriedly slammed the door behind them. He immediately came round and offered tea before leading them up to a very odd sitting room. It resembled the Room of Requirement when the configuration of the room had been set to the Room of Hidden Things, though much of the clutter seemed to be handmade and very peculiar. Hermione boggled at the sight of an Erumpent horn mounted to the wall, sputtering about how dangerous an item it was to be kept in a home, but Harry hushed her before Mr. Lovegood returned, telling her to focus on the topic of their visit.

Xenophilius returned a few minutes later, carrying a tray of biscuits and teacups filled with what looked to be purple mud. Harry took a sip and immediately regretted it, setting the cup back in its saucer and on a nearby table before clearing his throat.

“Mr. Lovegood, I don’t want to waste your time. Hermione and I came here for a very specific reason. We need to know what the symbol on your necklace is, what it means.”

Purple liquid spurted out of Mr. Lovegood’s nose as he choked. Hermione moved to help him, but he waved her off before righting himself, taking a few moments to collect his thoughts. He pulled the necklace from beneath his nightshirt and held it out to them.

“This,” he began, “is the sign of the Deathly Hallows.”

Harry and Hermione sat silently. Mr. Lovegood looked at them expectantly, as though that rudimentary answer had satisfied any other questions they might have had for him. Slowly, his look of expectation turned into one of annoyance.

“The Deathly Hallows? Objects of immense power and usefulness, said to make one the Master of Death himself? No?”

They shook their heads in unison. This had not been the answer Hermione had hoped for, by the look on her face. Harry was simply confused. Why would a symbol representing magical objects be used as an insignia for a Dark Lord?

“I assume you are both familiar with ‘The Tale of the Three Brothers’?”

Hermione stiffened next to him and shot Mr. Lovegood an incredulous look.

“But – but sir, they _can’t_ be real, can they?” she asked.

“They can – _are_ real, indeed, Ms. Granger,” Xenophilius said sagely. “This symbol is worn by those of us who believe, to identify one another in the Quest in search of them.”

“Excuse me,” Harry interjected, “But what are we talking about?”

Hermione looked sheepish. “Hold on, Harry, I have it here.” She pulled out her copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ from her bag.

“Why don’t you read it aloud?” Mr. Lovegood said innocently, though his eyes flicked towards the windows surreptitiously. Harry narrowed his eyes at the older man but said nothing.

“Right,” Hermione said. She flipped the pages until she reached the story, cleared her throat, and began to read.

_“There were once three brothers who were traveling along a londely, winding road at twilight…”_

Harry listened with rapt attention as Hermione recounted the story of brothers facing Death himself, of their deceit and cunning against him. He admitted that the first brother reminded him of Voldemort, seeking nothing but power and prestige. The second brother’s plight instilled him with pity and also, an uncomfortable familiarity. He too would cherish a method of seeing those he had lost. But when Hermione spoke of the Cloak of Invisibility, a creeping sense of dread trickled down his spine. A Cloak of _True_ Invisibility, unperturbable and long-lasting, once belonging to Death himself? As far-fetched as it sounded, Harry felt at once that it must be true.

“So, these Hallows _actually_ exist?” Harry asked.

“Indeed, they do, Mr. Potter. The Elder Wand,” he held up his pendant, tracing his finger down the vertical line. “The Resurrection Stone,” he said, tracing the circle. “The Cloak of True Invisibility,” he finished, tracing the triangle enclosing the symbol that had so entrance Hermione months ago. “Together, they make up the Deathly Hallows. Together,” he said, “they make one the Master of Death.”

Hermione looked as though she had eaten something that didn’t agree with her. Harry knew she was struggling to come up with counter-arguments and refutations about the validity of the the Hallows’ existence, so he interjected before she could begin.

“Mr. Lovegood, have any of the Hallows been found before?”

“Ah, there is some evidence to the existence of the Elder Wand in particular,” he mused. “It is the easiest to trace, as one must capture it from its previous owner to become its master. It must be won in combat or by killing its owner. There have been many names for the Wand as it passed through history. The Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick. Several incredibly powerful wizards through the annals of time were said to be in possession of it, using its power to intensify their own, to perform great feats of magic, both for good and for ill.”

Hermione pursed her lips, forming a question.

“Sir… does the name Peverell have anything to do with the Hallows?”

Mr. Lovegood’s eyes widened in shock and pleasure. “Ah, I see you _are_ familiar with the Hallows Quest, indeed! Delightful! Many of those of us who seek the Hallows believe the Peverells to be the original owners of the Hallows. Indeed, they might have inspired the Tale itself. There were three brothers, after all: Antioch, the firstborn, then Cadmus, and the youngest, Ignotus.”

Alarms fired off in Harry’s brain, and he whipped his head around to look at Hermione, who had frozen in place. She turned to Harry and whispered:

“Ignotus Peverell… The gravestone in Godric’s Hollow… Harry, this is _huge_. I don’t know what to think…”

Mr. Lovegood looked at her knowingly before nodding. “Indeed, the realization that our world is not exactly as we see it can be a disheartening revelation at first. My Luna has told me of you, of course, Miss Granger. Terribly bright, exceedingly capable, yet frustratingly narrow-minded in your pursuit of knowledge. Perhaps this experience will further your growth.”

Irritated as he was at Mr. Lovegood’s apparent rudeness, Harry couldn’t help but silently agree with his appraisal of Hermione. She was brilliant, no one could deny it. But she did had trouble accepting anything that wasn’t a proven fact. That was made evident by her many inflamed debates with Luna over the years.

Speaking of… “Mr. Lovegood, is Luna here?”

Xenophilius gulped shakily. Once more he floundered and looked out the windows, seeming to be unable to find an answer. Harry’s instincts screamed at him to grab Hermione and run, that something wasn’t right. The incident at Godric’s Hollow only seemed to increase his feeling of discomfort.

“She isn’t here, is she?” Harry asked, and when Xenophilius again said nothing, “Where is she? What’s happened to her?”

Hermione gasped.

“They took her,” Mr. Lovegood whispered. “They look my Luna because of what I’ve been writing. They – they said they would give her back to me if…”

“If you hand me over?” Harry asked. “Get up, ‘Mione. We’re leaving.”

Before Hermione could say another word, spellfire crashed through the window. Jets of red and purple light soared through the sitting room, barely missing them by inches. Harry Disarmed and Stunned Xenophilius before the man could even draw his wand. Just as Harry and Hermione reached the door a red jet of light flew through the window and hit the Erumpent horn on the wall.

Harry’s _Protego_ couldn’t have been cast a second too soon. The explosion seemed to blow the entire floor apart. Debris battered against his shield and the force threw them from the room and into the wall in the hallway. Harry pulled himself to his feet, shaking of bits of wood and stone, and helped Hermione do the same. Just as they started descending the stairs, the front door burst into splinters.

“ _Homenum revelio!_ ” a harsh voice shouted from below. “Three bodies upstairs, Travers! The old loon might’ve been telling the truth after all.”

“Harry!” Hermione whimpered. He wrenched the beaded bag from her hands and pulled out the Cloak, dragging it over their bodies. He grabbed Hermione’s hand and led her back to what was left of the sitting room. He planned to wait until the Death Eaters came upstairs, Stun them, and then escape as quickly as possible.

“Here he is!” the voice shouted from the doorway. A large man in a filthy black cloak barged in, wand trained on the prone body of Mr. Lovegood. “He’s been Stunned. Merlin, the room’s a mess. Did we do that?”

“Who gives a toss? I’ve got nothing from here!” another voice – Travers – called from the hallway. “Wake him up! See what he’s got to say,” he finished, walking into the room.

Harry squeezed Hermione’s hand and began to maneuver through the scattered debris, careful not to disturb anything or make any noise lest they be discovered.

“ _Ennervate_!” the other wizard said. Mr. Lovegood came to with a yelp of fear.

“P-P-Potter! It’s Potter! I have him. He’s _here!_ ”

“Heard that, Selwyn? He says he’s got Potter!”

“I heard him. So then, Lovegood, where is he then?”

Mr. Lovegood whirled around, desperate. He had begun to cry earnestly. “I h-had him here! I swear it! Him and the girl! The Muggle-born!”

Fury welled in Harry’s veins. The old coward!

“You lying piece of filth,” shouted Selwyn. “You’ve never even seen Potter in your life, have you? You old fraud. Don’t you think we have better things to do that waste our time hearing about bloody Crumple” – a bang, and then a scream – “Horned” – _bang – “_ Snorkacks?”

“ _Please!_ ” Mr. Lovegood screamed, his voice cracking. “He’s _here_ , I swear it! Please, I wouldn’t lie! I just want my Luna, please, I beg you!”

Travers laughed cruelly and smiled down at the sputtering Xenophilius.

“Oh, you’ll get your daughter back, Lovegood. _After_ we hand her over to old Greyback, we’ll send what’s left of her for you to bury. Loves children, Greyback does.”

Harry felt sick at the mention of Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf who had attacked Remus Lupin as a child and turned him, and who had attacked Bill the year before. Harry had heard horrid rumors about the werewolf’s savagery even without the excuse of the full moon. The idea of Luna being handed over to Greyback made him see red. He turned his head toward Hermione and saw a matching look of rage on her face. She nodded at him, and he held up three fingers.

At the count of three, Harry threw the Cloak off and cast a silent Stunner at Travers as Hermione did the same to Selwyn. They were extremely lucky to have caught the two Death Eaters off guard, they knew, but both men dropped in a heap. With a swift _Incarcerous_ , both men were taken care of, leaving a sputtering, sobbing Mr. Lovegood staring up at them.

“ _Obliviate_ ,” Hermione muttered, pointing her wand at the man on the ground. She looked up at a confused Harry. “We don’t want anyone to know that we were actually here, do we?”

“No, you’re right. Let’s go.”

They shot down the stairs in a rush, eager to get as far away as they possible could from the Lovegood home. The moment Harry felt the anti-Apparation wards fall, Hermione grabbed him and twisted around, dragging him once more into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bitch to write.


	10. the fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I solemnly swear that I do not own Harry Potter.

They landed in a heap on the ground, heaving and still reeling from the escape. Harry scrambled up immediately, lifting Hermione with him. The grove of thin trees they’d Apparated to was already going dark in the failing sunlight, dusk falling upon them quickly. Harry and Hermione went to work at once, casting their protective enchantments and setting up the tent. As they finished, Harry stormed into the tent and wrenched out the bottle of Ogden’s Finest he’d nicked from Grimmauld Place. He poured a tumbler for himself and another for Hermione, who accepted it gratefully.

He slammed the drink back, resisting the urge to belch flames. “That bastard! I can’t believe it…”

“I can’t believe he had an Erumpent horn in his sitting room,” Hermione said bleakly. “I hope he’ll be alright. Before we left, I obliviated both him and the two Death Eaters and gave them false memories. They’ll think they went in for a routine shake-down for _The Quibbler_ , not to harass him about you. I just hope it works.”

“That’s… That’s actually brilliant,” Harry admitted.

“No need to act so surprised,” Hermione said blithely. “I didn’t want to leave any trace of us actually being there. But now, we know they’ve got Luna. I just don’t know where they’d have taken her.”

“Maybe Azkaban?” Harry said, causing Hermione to pale. “Don’t worry. If anyone could survive there, it’s Luna. She’s tougher than you all thought. The whole doe-eyed mysterious girl act is just that: an act. Luna’s made of stern stuff.”

“I hope you’re right, Harry,” Hermione groaned. “Why did we go there? This was just another bad idea. We didn’t really learn anything of value, did we? I mean, they Deathly Hallows… It’s all rubbish, right? Can’t be real, can they?” She sounded very much like she was trying to convince herself of her words.

“I – I don’t rightly know, Hermione,” Harry said automatically. “I mean, do I believe that it all happened exactly as Beedle wrote it? No, of course not. But, maybe something similar? Three brothers who created incredibly powerful magical artifacts? It seems possible. And we already have proof of one here.”

He took out the Cloak and handed it to her. “I’ve had this for six years and the enchantments on it have never broken or faded. And my dad used it since _his_ first year at Hogwarts. And his dad before him. It’s been in the family for generations – who knows how far back? I reckon if one of them exists, the others might as well. It’s not something I think we should focus on over the horcruxes, mind, but I won’t just dismiss it out of hand.”

Hermione nodded reluctantly. “It’s just hard to admit something like that could be true. I mean, sure – all myths and legends have _some_ basis in truth, like the Chamber of Secrets. But how much of it is true? How do you determine which parts are real, and which parts are fabrications? I could see the Elder Wand existing, maybe. There’s been some conjecture of the power of wands versus the wizard wielding it, but there’s at least circumstantial evidence of uniquely powerful wands throughout documented Wizarding history. But the Resurrection Stone? No. There is no magic that can raise the dead, Harry.”

“But they don’t really come back, do they?” Harry asked.

She furrowed her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“Well, the way I interpreted the story, it reminds me of what happened in the graveyard back in fourth year. When my wand connected with Riddle’s, the Priori Incantatem effect did something… Some of the people who Riddle killed, their shades were there. Cedric, my mum and dad, the old gardener he’d killed that summer. They weren’t _actually_ back; they were like specters. Shades.”

“Yes, but the story – “

“I thought we established that the story itself wasn’t the point, it was the Hallows themselves. Either way, in the story, the second brother brought his intended back. But she wasn’t right. She wasn’t meant to be brought back. It was like she was a pale imitation of herself. That sounds like a shade to me. Some kind of mutation of a ghost or something. It wasn’t _right_. So, it’s probably not a stone that _actually_ brings them back to life, just some imitation of it that doesn’t, or can’t, last.”

“I don – “

“And on top of that, the ritual in the graveyard _did_ bring Riddle back. True, he wasn’t actually dead, but his wraith was similar to what we’ve been talking about. Not to mention the homunculus thing he was living as before the ritual.”

“Yes, but Harry, that was _very_ Dark magic.”

“What makes you think the Hallows aren’t?”

He saw something flash in Hermione’s eyes. She was looking at him with what looked like respect and something akin to anger. She lowered her eyes, thinking, and then nodded. Smiling, she said:

“Well reasoned. I can’t remember the last time you won an argument with me.”

“It’s tough doing, that’s for sure. Hard to argue with the Brightest Witch of Her Age, let me tell you…”

She laughed and sat her glass down, getting up from her chair. She shuffled over to him and sat in his lap. She began to kiss him softly, deepening it as Harry returned it enthusiastically. Harry, feeling brave after his shot of liquid courage, let his hands start to wander, hoping that he wasn’t being too forward. He felt relieved when Hermione gave an appreciative moan as his hands slipped down to her backside and lightly squeezed. But before Harry could continue, a question bubbled from his lips, unbidden.

“Where did you find the name ‘Peverell’?” he asked.

“Hmm? Oh, it was after we left Godric’s Hollow. I looked for anyone with the given name Ignotus from the last thousand years or so. It came up a few times, but the only Ignotus with a surname beginning with ‘P’ was Ignotus Peverell.”

“Where could you have possibly researched that on the lam?”

“A book Kreacher gave me before we left Grimmauld,” she said. “It was a book of Wizarding Genealogy for pureblood families. Apparently, the Peverell family vanished centuries ago, at least in the male line. They could still have descendants, though I expect they’ll have changed their name since.”

Harry racked his brain, trying to figure out why the name ‘Peverell’ was so familiar to him when Hermione brought it up to Xenophilius Lovegood. He glanced over at the table, laying his eye son the bottle of Firewhisky. Ogden’s… Ogden… Bob Ogden! That was it! It was a memory, faint, and not even his own.

“The Gaunt ring!” he shouted suddenly, scaring the wits out of Hermione.

“ _What_?” she sputtered.

“The Gaunt ring,” he said again. “The Pensieve memories that Dumbledore showed me, do you remember? This man, Bob Ogden, worked for the DMLE and was sent to investigate…something, I can’t remember. But he went to Little Hangleton, where Riddle’s parents were born. The man he interviewed, his name was Marvolo Gaunt.”

“You-Know-Who’s grandfather,” she said, nodding.

“Right. He – he told Ogden that he was descended from the _Peverells_ , Hermione! And he had a ri – “

He stopped in his tracks. The _Ring_. The smooth black stone, apparently engraved with the Peverell coat of arms. The rune. The symbol. How had he not seen it before?

“The Ring,” Harry said quietly. “The horcrux. The one Dumbledore destroyed. It was set with a black stone. Gaunt said it had the Peverell coat of arms on it. It was the symbol of the Deathly Hallows, I’m sure of it.”

“Harry – “

“No, Hermione, please. Just trust me on this. I’m not losing focus on the hunt; I’m just trying to fit in the pieces of the puzzle in my head. There’s _something_ there and it’ll eat me alive if I can’t put it together.”

Harry did have the briefest of pipe dreams: he saw himself, standing before a kneeling Voldemort, Elder Wand in a ringed hand, draped in his Cloak. But then, how would these three artifacts truly help in a fight against Voldemort? Was it truly worth the effort? If he became Master of the Hallows, would it help him survive? He couldn’t be sure.

He had idly began running his hands through the fabric of his Cloak. He had been telling the truth before: the Invisibility Cloak had been in his family for generations, passing from father to son. He had never seen a cloak like it in his brief time in the Wizarding world, nor had anyone else who had come into contact with his Cloak. It offered true concealment, no matter what spells were cast against it. It was imperturbable.

“Dumbledore had this the night my parents died,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“He had it. The Cloak. The letter I found in Grimmauld from my mum. She told Sirius that Dumbledore had asked my dad to borrow it. Why? He didn’t _need_ it, that’s for sure. His Disillusionment Charm was the most powerful I’ve ever seen. Or, _not_ seen, rather. I think he wanted to examine it, research it. I’m not sure why, I could be grasping at straws. But, Ignotus Peverell was buried in Godric’s Hollow… He was the youngest brother, right? The one death gave the Cloak to?”

She nodded slowly.

“And you said that the Peverell family could have descendants, that they’d just have different names?”

Realization hit Hermione like a punch to the face. She sat down, _hard_. “You’re descended from the third brother. _Merlin_ , Harry, I don’t want to admit it. But it does fit.”

He grabbed the pouch from his neck, grabbing for his mother’s letter, when his hand wrapped around something else entirely. He gingerly lifted the Snitch from the pouch before setting it on the table.

“I – I think it’s in here: The Stone.”

Hermione looked entirely befuddled. “I don’t follow.”

“I’m not sure, really. I don’t _know_ for certain. I just – I have a feeling, you know? And before you start, I’m almost always right about things like this. The Stone, the Chamber, _Malfoy_. I can’t know for sure, but – “

“Harry, I believe you!” Hermione all but shouted. “I _always_ believe you. It’s not about that. It’s about how you get so fixated on _one_ path. You get tunnel-vision, you don’t think ahead, or plan. _That’s_ what I always disagreed with. I never once disregarded your instincts. I don’t – we just need to think clearly about this, and work on it when we have the time. I mean, should this really be a priority right now?”

Harry shook his head, not really paying attention. While Hermione had been speaking, all of the pieces suddenly shifted into place. Everything fit snugly. He already _had_ two of the Hallows, or so he believed. The Cloak was his by rights, the Stone left to him by Dumbledore. But what about the Elder Wand? Where could it possibly be? And how would he even begin to search for it, even if it were a priority?

“You’re right,” he eventually said. “We should focus on the Horcruxes. If I’m right, I already have two of them, and the Wand could be anywhere. It’s not worth worrying about at the moment.”

Hermione let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Harry. Look, why don’t you grab some food for us while I set up for first watch?”

Harry nodded and headed to the kitchen, absentminded while grabbing plates of food and preparing tea. He tried his hardest to push the Hallows from his mind and focus on their task. Dumbledore had left them with what seemed like an impossible mission at times. His earlier epiphany concerning Marvolo Gaunt jogged his memories of other nights spent perusing Pensieve with Dumbledore, including the memories concerning Hepzibah Smith. Harry knew there was a Horcrux in Hogwarts somewhere, most likely something to do with Rowena Ravenclaw.

He and Hermione discussed the potential hiding places for the Helga Hufflepuff’s cup several times over the following weeks. Every time they moved camp, the residual fear of getting caught increased, not helped by the fact that they nearly ran afoul of several groups of Snatchers. Ron had been right in saying that they weren’t too bright, but they did outnumber he and Hermione, and Harry had no inclinations toward getting caught and taken to the Ministry whatsoever.

Almost as if Summoned, flashes and brief visions into Voldemort’s mind made a reappearance. Occasionally, Harry’s scar would burn or prickle, and though he tried to hide it, Hermione could always tell when it was bothering him, and she’d set upon him until he shared what he saw. Gone were the days of her getting on his case about his inability to occlude his mind from Riddle. She, like Harry, believed that perhaps the most efficient course of action for finding the Cup might be to take advantage of the fleeting glimpses into Riddle’s mind. But all Harry could see were odd shapes and colors at times, a flash of what looked to be a skull, and a mountain of shadow and stone. The subliminal images were a far cry from the full memories and actions he was used to, and Harry came to believe that that might have been deliberate.

The Riddle House, Diagon Alley, Albania, Borgin and Burkes, Hogwarts, and even some of the other magical villages spread across Britain were discussed as hypothetical resting places for the Cup, and yet, Harry could not think of any way to find definitive proof or to confirm their theories without checking in person. And with him being Undesirable No. 1, making an appearance in public wasn’t an option. Hermione proposed Polyjuice once more, even glamour charms, but eventually agreed that the risks weren’t worth a potential dead end.

As the late winter melted nastily into spring, and with more down time than Harry had ever remembered having, he and Hermione spent their days keeping themselves busy. Staving off the boredom meant finding something – _anything_ – to do. They practiced their dueling, and before long Hermione could hold her own more often than not against Harry. He had to admit that her repertoire of usable spells was much higher than his and spent a few days learning what he could from her. In particular, he believed charms and spells concerning stealth and disillusionment would come in handy. It took some doing to convince Hermione to learn the more violent of defensive and combat spells, including a few pointedly nasty curses that Harry had learned from a book from the Black library.

It also caused their first real fight as a couple.

“Harry, I _won’t_ use this. It’s barbaric,” she said resolutely.

“Do you think they wouldn’t use it against you?” he asked calmly. “Hermione, if we get into a fight, it won’t be like a school duel. You remember the Department of Mysteries, we barely stood a chance using Stunners and Bombardment curses. _This_ is more effective.”

“Effective? _Effective_? Harry, what situation could you possibly foresee yourself in that you would need to shatter someone’s bones?”

Harry’s eyes darkened at that, and Hermione caught herself before saying more.

“I can think of _multiple_ situations where something like this could have been useful,” Harry all but whispered. “Situations where if we had used curses like _this_ instead of Stunners, things would be different now. I’m not going to argue the morality issue with you anymore, Hermione. If I had had something like this in fifth year, Sirius would still be alive. I’m not going to fight Death Eaters with one hand tied behind my back, ‘Mione. I won’t.”

“So, you’re just going to use Dark magic, consequences be damned?”

“Ye – wait, no – No! That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it!”

“Do I? Harry, there’s a reason these spells aren’t taught openly. They take a toll on you, they – magic like this _always_ comes with a cost. Where do you draw the line?”

“Merlin, Hermione, you’re acting like I’m considering Unforgivables! Do you really think I’m turning Dark or something?”

The silence in the tent was deafening to Harry’s ears. To him, Hermione’s refusal to answer was an answer in itself.

“Really?” he asked quietly. “You’ve known me longer than anyone. When have I ever – how could – “ he sighed. “Do you really think so little of me?”

“No!” Hermione shouted, tears welling in her eyes. “No, no, Harry that’s not – I could never think that of you. I just – I don’t want to see you lose yourself in this!”

“What’s the alternative? Rely on weaker, Lighter spells that barely incapacitate? Put myself, and _you_ , in more danger, simply because I refuse to use something than could put someone down for the fight? Where’s the logic in that, Hermione?”

“It’s not just about logic, Harry! Even the Order wouldn’t use these spells. Dumbledore wouldn’t – “

“TO HELL WITH DUMBLEDORE!” Harry bellowed. “Dumbledore’s way got us into this mess! He _knew_ what Riddle was, Hermione, don’t you get that? Dumbledore always believed in second chances, that anyone could be redeemed, and look where that got us! He always sat on the sidelines, hardly ever got involved himself, even if his inaction caused more deaths. I _will not_ be like that, Hermione. If I can do something to save more people, even if it seems wrong, I will do it. I have no compunctions with using a Bone-Breaker on Bellatrix Lestrange, or Fenrir Greyback, or _Dolohov_.”

At the mention of Antonin Dolohov, Hermione inattentively rubbed a hand across her chest and shuddered. Harry closed his eyes and took several heaving breaths, calming himself, before kneeling in front of Hermione where she sat upon the bunk and gripping her hands.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he said. “I am. I didn’t mean to get that worked up. But what we’ve been fighting with all this time… It isn’t enough. I’m not going to turn Dark or butcher my soul by fighting fire with fire, Hermione. I’m not doing this because I enjoy it, you know that. But if I can save your life, or someone else’s, by using something like this, I will. I won’t lose someone I _love_ over this. There’s no choice there, between your life and theirs, not for me.”

Hermione sat silently for a moment, not meeting Harry’s eyes. Suddenly her features hardened and her eyes met his, blazing with determination.

“Okay. Teach me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never thought that Harry and Hermione would fight about the mundanities of a normal relationship. Jealousy? Nah. Finances? Who cares. The morality of using Dark curses in a war against a Death Cult? Yeah, that's the good stuff. 
> 
> If you're paying attention to the general outline of the story, you know what's coming next. I wrote this chapter specifically to warn you, dear reader, that this Harry may not be content to just escape when he sees what Bellatrix has done to Hermione, and that it may have consequences.

**Author's Note:**

> PLS COMMENT I THRIVE ON VALIDATION


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